


While The Detective's Away

by ElementarySaidHe (GetOffTheWarTable)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, Coma, John figures out what Sherlock shoulda told him in season 3, John is a Detective, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidnapping, M/M, Slow Build, being a badass detective while your wife is kidnapped and your BFF is in the hospital, post-tab
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 05:32:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5856076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GetOffTheWarTable/pseuds/ElementarySaidHe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an attack mysteriously left his best friend in the hospital and his wife missing, it's up to John to put together the pieces and try to make things right again. On the way, he discovers the depth of how much Sherlock cared during the Fall -- and how it might be too late to thank him for it. Is John able to put on the deerstalker and match the wit of the great detective, or will he be floundering while the ones he loves are in danger?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 0

John didn’t actually get to see too much of the action that day, even if it involved the two most important people in his life. 

 

The past few weeks had been stressful. Ever since the plane had touched down, John’s hands were tied with his junkie best friend and his increasingly pregnant wife. He’d, unintentionally, neglected her a little during the middle bits of the pregnancy, but as she got bigger, well ... he had to tend to her. Of course he did. But he also had to tend to his friend who’d just tried to overdose on a bloody aeroplane and who was also trying to track down ... a ghost, probably.

 

It was a lot, actually.

 

Whenever he was with one, he constantly texted the other. John felt exhausted, and worried, and nervous, and everything in his body just needed to stop being  _ on  _ for one single second. 

 

But, he could get past this. Part of him almost enjoyed it. It was feeling needed, and it was the rush of impending parenthood, and it was helping out a man who helped him out so many times, and as long as he could get through this without having a stroke, he’d be fine.

 

Which was why when he texted Mary asking if she wanted white or wheat and didn’t get an answer, he started to get worried. It was 2 PM, and he was getting the shopping.

 

Of course, it was nothing to worry about. John attributed it to his growing paternalistic senses. She was probably napping, or pissing, or busy, three things which usually occupied Mary’s time nowadays. 

 

On a whim, he texted Sherlock.

 

_ Got anything else yet? I thought you said you were going to that computer shop today. JW  _

 

No response, either. John forced himself not to worry. Sherlock didn’t usually use at 2 in the afternoon; he hadn’t quite gotten that frustrated yet.

 

In one sense, he should’ve enjoyed the one hour of freedom. He could’ve relaxed, maybe put the shopping to the side and get a beer. But, he didn’t. Instead, he just debated over wheat or white bread, feeling his soul dry up a little inside at the domesticity of it.

 

It was four PM when he finished the shopping and he tried to text Mary again, and call. Nothing. Nothing from Sherlock, either.

 

Simultaneous napping? Not that he’d ever known Sherlock to nap, but the man was on a very difficult case.

 

When he got home, he didn’t see Mary. 

 

Three more texts, two more calls. Two more texts sent specifically to Sherlock about the whereabouts of his wife. However, he forced himself to be calm. She’d just gone out. 

 

Frankly, his thoughts didn’t go towards anything dark. If anything, he thought, at the worst, she’d gone into early labour and was a bit too preoccupied pushing a girl out of her that she hadn’t thought to call.

 

The girl would be damn early, though, and that did stress John out a little.

 

Quietly, he put the shopping away. He looked around the flat in awkward boredom. The flat hadn’t  _ really  _ felt like home. There was something  _ sterile  _ about it. Not due to Mary, not at all, but there was a matching colour scheme, and there were no messes to be seen, and there was tasteful art on the wall. It felt odd.

 

He worked on painting the nursery a little. John knew he was behind on it, and Mary nagged him about it on occasion.

 

John was shirtless, barefoot, and in jeans as he started to paint the nursery. Didn’t want to get any paint on him, but he had to have some sort of dignity around the flat. They’d mutually decided on a soft violet colour. John figured that was so they didn’t have to name their daughter ‘Violet’, even if Sherlock preferred that name. John had argued that Sherlock, not being any sort of contributor to the baby, probably didn't have any right to name it.

 

Eight PM and counting. John’s worry was moving.

 

“Hi, um, sorry,” he said over the phone, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen as he stared out the back window. “I was just calling about my wife. It’s, heh, a bit awkward, but she _is_ pregnant and I was just wondering if she checked in at some point for early labour. Mary Watson is the name. No, that’s fine, I’ll hold.”

 

Fifteen minutes later, he was informed that nobody under the name ‘Mary Watson’ had checked in.

 

John’s blood started to run colder. He called Sherlock.

 

“Sherlock. Hey. You haven’t answered my texts all day; you’re probably just ignoring everything on the sofa again.” His voice got grim. “Look. Listen to this, just -- god, please. I haven’t heard from Mary in hours and I’m getting ... I’m getting worried. I’m at the flat, car’s gone, and I haven’t heard from her. Please let me know if you find anything. Thanks.’

 

Maybe Mary had gone over to Sherlock’s. She always commented (well, teased) that she might as well just move in with the man and save John the trouble of running around. 

 

_ Wait. Wait a few hours, John, and she’ll be back, teasing you about how protective you’re getting, and how sexy it is.  _

 

To distract himself, John started painting. His mobile was left in the middle of the room as he got an entire wall finished. Even at its loudest setting, John continually went to try and check it with his paint-covered hands. No new messages.

 

Could call Mycroft. Even if it was only for emergencies that he usually called the elder Holmes. But Mycroft wouldn’t give a damn about something like this. 

 

Lestrade, maybe? Wasn’t much Lestrade could do. Wasn’t even his division, thank God for that. 

 

Molly? His heart seized at the thought.

 

No. There would be nothing else to do but wait. Once John had finished all four walls, he settled down with the crib and attempted to build it. That was enough to capture his attention for a few hours, especially after he hammered his thumb.

 

Eleven PM. John got dressed and put on his coat, hand on the door. At least, if Mary came back now, even with a legitimate reason, he could get frustrated with her. She was  _ pregnant,  _ for God’s sake, and like it or not, she had  _ limitations.  _ If only if she wanted to keep John’s heart in good health.

 

Eleven fifteen and John heard a knock at the door.

 

Without hesitation, he wrenched it open and immediately launched into his row. “Do you have  _ any  _ idea how wor--” 

 

Instead of his pregnant wife, John was greeted by the elder Holmes brother. 

 

This was about Sherlock. For the first time in hours, all thoughts of Mary left his mind. Sherlock had OD’d, Sherlock was dead, Sherlock was in trouble, John hadn’t even bothered to check on him. Oh, god, the  _ one bloody time.  _

 

“Dr. Watson,” Mycroft drawled, looking apologetic. “I apologise about the hour, but ... it is about my brother.”

 

_ Fuck.  _

 

“There’s been an accident and he’s been injured quite severely.”

 

Injured. Not killed. John’s shoulders sagged a little, and he could feel his nostrils flare. His command was unspoken.  _ Explain.  _

 

“I’m not aware of the details, myself,” his mouth soured as if it bothered him to admit that. “He was admitted to the hospital; I’ve only just left him. Serious head injuries seem to be the extent of it, and he’s just getting sedatives out of his system.”

 

“Sedatives? He was high when he was attacked?”

 

Mycroft hesitated, looking to the side. “It wasn’t morphine, but that isn’t Sherlock’s only preference for sedation.  Given his recent activities, I’m inclined to believe that he was under the influence.”

 

“He’s been clean for three weeks,” John tried weakly. “I’ve been giving him drug tests.”

 

“Perhaps he’s been buying urine. Perhaps this was one slip-up. The fact remains.”

 

“How bad is he, right now? Going into surgery?”

  
“A little. He may suffer from some brain damage when he wakes. He may be perfectly fine. He may not wake up at all.” Mycroft wasn’t meeting his eyes, and he could see the man go a little paler than usual. It all just felt so ... so  _sudden,_ to John, that he just had to take a step ack while his brain tried to catch up. Mary, gone. Sherlock, hurt. Someone needed to pay.

 

_ Not this, too.  _

 

“Do you want me to go sit by him?” John offered immediately. At least he knew where Sherlock was, and perhaps -- if he was there, Mycroft could focus on Mary? John wasn't an idiot. He knew the two things had to be connected.

 

Mycroft considered the offer for a second as he looked over John. “Your wife. You haven’t seen her in a while?”

 

John’s jaw set. Christ, he really didn’t want to talk about this to Mycroft. John didn’t really think Mycroft liked Mary, as much as Mycroft could be arsed to give an opinion on anything. Not that John could blame him, really, but he didn’t want Mycroft getting too interested.

 

“No. Not since I left this morning. I’m ... yeah. A little worried.”

 

“Sherlock gravely injured and your wife missing. Hardly a coincidence. If you will go sit by Sherlock for a while,” Mycroft informed him, “I’ll look into this further. I’m heading to his flat. Pack your things and you’ll go to the hospital.”

 

“Why don’t _I_ go -- “ John was interrupted sharply. He thought, if he went to the flat, maybe he'd find something where -- Mycroft interrupted his thought.

 

“Do you think this is a joke, Dr. Watson?” His voice was chilling. “I’m more than content to let my brother traipse around London solving whatever cases he likes. If it keeps him off of the drugs, I’ll let him do anything he wants. My brother is injured, your wife is missing. And, to be frank, I am the smarter one. This is not  _ you  _ getting your  _ fix.  _ This is  _ me  _ keeping my brother  _ safe.”  _

 

John couldn’t argue with that, and he dropped his need to be in the front of the action. Mycroft was deathly serious and John could appreciate why. If anyone really understood the depth of a sibling’s love, it was probably John. What Sherlock needed right now was a companion, and the brightest man in London -- probably -- was looking for his wife. That was the best he could do.

 

And hopefully ... please, oh god, she would be found. And she’d be fine. She’d just ... visited someone, fallen asleep, _something_.

 

\---

 

The ride with Mycroft was perhaps one of the most uncomfortable moments in his life. He supposed, if they’d been different people, it would’ve been a bonding moment. The most important man in both of their lives was sitting in a hospital bed with serious trauma and they had to fix it. With, well, whatever help John could give. They could’ve talked. Could’ve made a plan.

 

Instead, John could only marvel about how strange it was to ride in the front, with Mycroft driving. He supposed that was the shock setting in, because the only thing he could focus on was Mycroft’s fingers gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.

 

“When he wakes up.” Mycroft finally spoke, after clearing his throat. “Inform me immediately. If you would.” 

 

They were both staring straight ahead, as St. Bart’s loomed in front of them. It was black outside and the lights coming from the hospital lit up the inside of the car warmly. For a half-second, John didn’t want to leave. Even with a man he didn’t particularly care for very much, the car seemed like a place where John knew all of the variables. Inside ... what state was he going to see Sherlock in?

 

Not changing his gaze,  John nodded his head. “And any word on my wife, you call me right away so I can go to her. I’ll find someone to watch after Sherlock in my stead.”

 

“Agreed.” His hands weren’t off the car; the engine was still running. Nodding his head, John took his jacket and left.

 

\--

 

It wasn’t like John hadn’t been in hundreds of hospital rooms. Hospitals, wherever they were, were second nature to John. He felt sympathy when he watched them rush around with patients or papers or machines, he felt domesticity when the nurses chatted at the front desk, he felt comfortable walking into a clean hospital room. Second nature to him, all of this.

 

Walking along the hallway, John looked around at the numbers and watched for the room he’d been given. At finally seeing Sherlock’s, he pushed his way in without knocking.

 

The first thing he noticed was the shock of messy black hair. It was really the only source of colour in the hospital room, at the moment, besides the sky outside. 

 

John was a doctor, he couldn’t afford to cry much over the wounded, but it still hit him a little. How weak Sherlock looked. How vulnerable.

 

The bedding was tucked in underneath him, and John had the sinking feeling he knew who had tucked Sherlock in. His arms were resting on top of the scratchy hospital blanket, pale and thin and straight. John knew there were track marks on the inside of his arms; he didn’t bother looking for them. The top of the medical gown was barely visible, flowing up into his neck and then his face. Bandages, there, probably some stitches in the back of his head where he was leaning against the pillow.

 

His best friend, injured and unconscious in a hospital. His wife, god knew where.

 

The only thing he could do was collapse in his chair and scrub his hands over his face, trying to breathe out slowly.

 

“Alright, Sherlock,” he finally sighed, bringing his hands down his face. Although he didn’t realize it at the time, the gesture was oddly similar to Sherlock’s usual steepling of his fingers. “We’re going to sort this out.”


	2. Day 1

“John?”

 

Someone was shaking him awake. John forced his eyes open and he couldn’t see in the bright sunlight. He knew he was getting a little older. It always took his eyes some time to adjust in the morning. Still, he knew the shock of grey-hair and those overly concerned eyes anywhere.

 

“Greg, sorry,” he mumbled out, yawning and straightening himself in his chair. Must’ve fallen asleep. “Erm, why -- ?”

 

“Came to check in. Holmes sent me here to take over a watch shift for him.” Lestrade’s hands were in his pockets, clearing having come in from work. “I think he’s worried someone’ll come in here, and, er. Finish the job.” 

 

That wasn’t an entirely lovely wakeup call at nine in the morning, but John nodded in understanding.

 

“He says he wants you to go to the flat, get some things together in case Sherlock wakes up. Also says he’ll want to talk to you.”

 

“Right, yeah.” Standing up and brushing his trousers off, John tried not to feel self-conscious in his wrinkled clothing. He hadn’t intended to stay the entire night. At least, that was what he told himself.  “Doctor was in, said that ... well, it’s Sherlock’s choice whenever he wakes up, basically. Full extent of the brain damage is hard to say.” 

 

“ _ Jesus,”   _ Greg breathed out as he and John both stared at the lifeless figure. They were silent for a while until John’s brain made an unconscious connection to the way he stood next to Lestrade at crime scenes, over dead bodies. He took a step backward. He didn't need the comparison.

 

“Yeah. It’s hard to see him like that. God’s sake, wasn’t so long ago that he was in here for the gunshot wound, too,” John mumbled, and just like that, it came to him.

 

Mary was still gone.

 

He had to go.

 

He didn’t stop at his own flat to change, instead going directly to Sherlock’s. 

 

What a fucking mess.

 

Understandable. After the plane ride debacle, John heard that Mycroft and Sherlock had it out at his flat. That was probably the only thing preventing John from striking the man, afterwards. It’d just been so ... so  _ disappointing.  _ Thinking of Sherlock as this brilliant, incredible man and realizing that he was just as susceptible to vice as everyone else? It was depressing. Not to mention, it made John feel like an idiot, not noticing it earlier.

 

The entire wall above the sofa was taken over by notes, pages, things pinned down here and there. Some of them were destroyed by what John could only assume to be bullet holes.

 

\--

  
_ WRONG! _

 

_ Sherlock’s voice rung out of the room as he raised the gun to one of the papers. Probably not supposed to be doing this (definitely not), but there was this unspoken  rule among his immediate circle. So long as it wasn’t drugs, it was considered constructive. _

 

_ One paper off the wall. _

 

_ IRRELEVANT! _

 

_ Another shot. It was assuredly a messy way to deal with this, but Sherlock needed the noise, the sound. The smell. The visualisation of the evidence being  _ **_struck_ ** _away._

 

\--

 

The kitchen was in its usual state, somewhere between nuclear facility and a meth lab. One of the condensers had broken and was lying, in pieces, in an evidence bag on the table. On a strange whim, John checked the fridge. No limbs.

 

It was only when he got to Sherlock’s room that he realised he was absolutely alone, nobody else going through the flat. And he felt at a loss for a long second, unsure of what to investigate or how to investigate it. What the  _ hell  _ was Mycroft doing? Just leaving him alone like this?

 

He wasn’t Sherlock. He didn’t  _ solve  _ things. And, what was more, he  _ knew  _ where Sherlock was. He didn’t know where Mary was.

 

_ Obviously, it’s like that Mycroft said. There’s a connection.  _

 

Maybe he couldn’t be Sherlock, but he could damn well imagine what Sherlock would say in such a situation. And he’d only feel a little pathetic, trying to imagine it. But Sherlock's voice had something empowering about it. Sherlock saw something in John, something hopeful, probably, and maybe that'd be enough motivation.

 

So, he looked a little closer at the wall.

 

And got, frankly, nothing. 

 

It was an odd mixture of madman scribbles and reports for strangers. John pulled military reports, medical reports, newspaper clippings, photos off the wall, trying to analyse them all. None of them made any  _ sense.  _ Who  _ were  _ these people? He felt as if he’d been thrown in the middle of a police procedural.

 

There was a scrap of napkin on it that had ‘MORAN’ written on it, scribbled three times. John recognized the napkin well -- how couldn’t he? They'd eaten there dozens of times over the course of their cohabitation. When Sherlock woke up, John vowed, he'd take him there again. 

 

\--

 

_ “Sherlock, you’ve barely touched your food.” _

 

_ Angelo’s disapproving but curious voice rose from over Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock looked up at him in surprise. He was writing down a steady track of notes and words in his notebook. When he reached the bottom of the page, he went on into a napkin instead. Couldn’t break the flow of consciousness.  _

 

_ He circled the name in particular on the napkin, an excited grin coming over him.  _

 

_ “You’re going to waste away to nothing,” Angelo murmured glumly. _

 

\--

 

Hadn’t they met a Moran? Oh, yes, the bit when Sherlock had just come back. Surely it wasn’t  _ that  _ Moran. That Moran had been a politician; this Moran had a long string of offenses before being dishonorably discharged. At least, that’s what John assumed. He only had half the form in his hand and Sherlock had, once again, written  _ MORAN  _ on it.

 

Standing up, John stuffed the piece of paper in his pocket. It was something to go off of, anyway.

 

It was getting late, and John figured that Lestrade would want someone to take over for Sherlock soon. As it was, John didn’t particularly like the idea of sleeping in his clothes again. He didn't want to go to his flat straight away, either. It felt incredibly old, nearly  _haunted._ But he wouldn't think of  _that_ word, that word that implied  _dead_ things, because nobody was dead and nobody was going to die.

 

Maybe Sherlock had some old things -- not that the man would mind, and he always had a full closet of costumes for whatever role he needed to throw on. An old button-up and some trousers would do.

 

He felt no guilt going through Sherlock’s closet. Man was a bloody drug addict, there wasn’t a lot worse he could find. Maybe a dead body.

 

He pushed them back, reaching further into the closet before his hand tightened on something familiar. It made him jump.

 

It was a pair of his jeans. And a jumper, also of his. John recognised them pretty well. In the mess after Sherlock ‘dying’, John had forgotten them in the flat. Had Mrs. Hudson put them here? Had  _ Sherlock  _ taken them? Were they forgotten after John spent the night?

 

They fit, at any rate. Smelled a little like musty wood, but it would do. 

 

_ You’re hardly a striking detective, going about in a jumper the same color as your hair. I'm not exactly one for appearances, but ... _

 

No, that wasn’t helpful. 

 

John left the flat and went back to the hospital. It didn’t feel right, going back to the flat. It never felt like home, but it sure as hell didn’t feel like home without Mary there. His neck wouldn’t be pleased with him at the hospital chair, but maybe he could find a nice sofa to lay on.

 

When he got to the hospital, though, he was surprised to see Lestrade and Mycroft speaking very quickly and very quietly together. Lestrade’s face transformed into sympathy, he patted the man on the shoulder, and he left. Mycroft looked slightly offended.

 

John entered the room as Mycroft was patting his shoulder, getting rid of some small amount of dust.

 

Mycroft spared a glance at his brother and then turned to John. “Your presence won’t be needed today. I’ll be staying the night.”

 

Oh. Stopping in his tracks, John looked hesitant.

 

“He’ll be perfectly fine. Everything still applies. If I find Mary Watson, I will let you know. If Sherlock wakes, I will let you know.” Mycroft primly set his umbrella against Sherlock’s bed. “Did you find out anything while at the flat?”

  
  
“I was about to ask you the same question. You've been there before I have, and you're ... er, more keen on this sort of thing than I am.”

 

“I have my own theories, Dr. Watson, I’m seeing what you’ve noticed. My brother’s noticed that it helps to keep a ...  _ common  _ ... eye around, to see what the public would notice.”

 

That probably was supposed to be an insult, but John was too tired to care much. “Do you know who a Moran is?” He asked, pulling out the military scrap and showing it to Mycroft. “Sherlock seemed to have quite a lot on him.” 

Inspecting the scrap with dainty fingers, Mycroft gently set it on the nightstand. John didn’t notice much, but he did notice Mycroft go a little pale.  There was something on.

 

“No,” Mycroft nearly whispered back. shaking his head. “No, unfortunately not. I’ll request some information and see what we can find out.” There was a thick, heavy air of awkwardness between them. Nobody had power or authority, here. They were both two men a little too invested in the man in the hospital bed, and there could be no wrestle of authority over that.

 

“I’ll try and see what I can find out on my own, too,” John tried weakly, the realization that he’d be spending the night alone hitting him.

 

“Of course.” Not smarmy comment. No quick jab. Almost ... gratitude, actually. “Now, if you won’t mind, I’d like to?” Gesturing wordlessly towards his brother, John understood and departed. 

 

\---

 

In bed, John hadn’t felt more alone or cut off in his life. 

 

Mary’s side of the bed remained terribly empty, but John was at a loss as to what to do. What was he going to do, scour London until he found his wife? That was impossible. Besides, he told himself, Mary was ... what she had been, before. An assassin. She could take care of herself, despite being quite pregnant.

 

Still, though. John tossed and turned in bed all night in an attempt to think. Moran. Maybe that had been Sherlock’s next lead, maybe that had been a failed lead, but it was the only thing he had at the moment. 

 

Now that he wasn’t doing anything, there was the rising sense of panic. No, he wasn’t going to believe that Mary was dead. Or Sherlock wouldn’t wake up. They would have to, because ... frankly, John didn’t know what he’d do without either one of them. His world would be shattered. He’d be back to that  _ shell  _ that came back from the war, the one who just stumbled through every day because that's the only thing he knew how to do. That one had had no personality, no ambition, no reason for getting up in the morning besides being too stubborn to die.

 

_ You just have to think of the events that occurred, John. Think of the most obvious explanation. Occam’s razor. If that proves false, then you can try out some of your romantic, ridiculous theories.  _

  
“Fuck off, you condescending prick,” John muttered to himself, turning over and shutting his eyes.   _ It’s alright,  _ John thought quietly.  _ I’ll find you, Mary;  I’ll find the person who hurt you, Sherlock.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I hope you all enjoyed it! I've been reading over your comments and I get absolutely tickled whenever I see one, so leave something below if you want, be it praise or criticism! Thank you!


	3. Day 2

John got up at three in the morning.

 

It was a nightmare that woke him, and it sure as hell didn’t help waking up covered in sweat to an empty bed. 

 

He remembered who Moran was.

 

Or, at least, remembered _his_ Moran _.  _ There’d been a Sebastian Moran, even if they hadn’t chatted very much. He got into trouble constantly. Most soldiers had a healthy respect for authority. Moran did not. Drank a little too much, was a little too friendly with the women, wound up on a hospital bed more often than the others.

 

He had a temper, too. There’d been one specific instance, and that had set the scene in the nightmare. They’d had a small break, his troop and a few others. Him and a few of his mates had gone to the local bar. By the time they had tucked in a few, Moran had come in later, obviously staggeringly drunk.

 

He’d started a fight with the bartender. He was in uniform. He had a gun. It could have been very, very messy if John hadn’t stepped up, brought him down, and knocked him out. After they'd both left the bar, he never saw Moran again.

 

In his dream, he’d just gotten Moran on the ground. And then he had turned to look at him - carefully, slowly, determinedly. 

 

“You’re messing with a live round, Watson.”

 

And then the excruciating, imagined pain woke him.

 

John sat up and tried to calm himself down, gazing at the empty side of the bed with longing.

 

When he was with Mary, he just tried to be as quiet as possible. Mary didn’t sleep heavily, even moreso now. He’d just calm his breathing down so Mary didn’t worry, because then Mary would fuss, and Mary was a little terrible at fussing. 

 

Now that he was alone, though, he didn’t have to be quiet.

 

“Jesus  _ Christ,”  _ he grumbled, getting out of bed and shoving the sheets off himself. It was  _ embarrassing,  _ still. Pathetic, actually. Like he was some kid who saw monsters in his closet, or someone who was doing it for attention. He just wanted it to stop. He  _hated_ this. Hated experiencing it, hated talking about it, hated everything about the entire damn business.

Time to get ready for the day, regardless.

 

Staring at himself in the mirror, John was always surprised by how old he looked. Grumbling lightly under his breath, he just stood in the shower and let the water go over him without really doing anything about it. Eventually, he relaxed his muscles enough to start to wash.

 

Surely, that wasn’t the same Moran. John couldn’t even remember if it  _ was  _ Moran. He just preferred to go by Colonel, actually, got rather pissed off if you didn’t use that. It could have been Maron, or Maston, or Maxon, or Mason. No, it wasn’t worth worrying about, not when he had bigger issues on hand. They'd already met another Moran here -- that politican. Chances that there were more Morans were probably large.

 

Get to the hospital. Today, he had the day shift with Sherlock, and he was going to bring the bag he had packed. Just in case Sherlock woke up. John was secretly hopeful, in the selfish sense. He wanted to  _ be there.  _ Not only for the chance to see Sherlock uncharacteristically soft and vulnerable, but also because he was surprised by how much he missed the man. It was rivalling how much he missed Mary, and he knew where Sherlock was.

 

And, more importantly, he had to research about this Moran fellow and try to figure out where his wife had been taken. This was all going so terribly  _ slow.  _

 

It was just around six when John arrived at the hospital, a large backpack slung over his shoulder as he tried to look cheerful. Tried not to look like a man who had a comatose best friend and a missing pregnant wife. 

 

Things could be worse. Could both be in the room a few floors below, with Molly.

 

Stopping in front of Sherlock’s room, John just sighed before letting himself in.

 

He wasn’t quite prepared for this sight.

 

Mycroft had dragged the chair so that it was facing Sherlock’s bed. A newspaper was folded and set aside primly, and Mycroft was slumped forward, his head falling in his arms. At first, John thought he was weeping or having a small breakdown, but instead, he could see that Mycroft had fallen asleep. His suit was wrinkled terribly and his hair was an oily mess. It was the first John had ever seen Mycroft look  _human_ \- but not the good parts of being human, no. The heartbreak, the sorrow. The loss.

 

Sherlock’s hand was disturbed, as if Mycroft had moved it closer to him. Sherlock’s fingertips were just inches from Mycroft’s elbow.

 

Suddenly, John felt as if he was interrupting something very personal. He didn’t know why Sherlock disliked Mycroft so much - minus the overbearing bit -- and he had never asked. This, though ... he felt like a stranger, here, as if he'd walked into the wrong room. Still, though, he couldn't let them just be. Mycroft had work or something, didn't he? Whatever the hell he did?

 

“Mycroft?” he asked after a few seconds, gently pushing Mycroft’s shoulder. “Mycroft. It’s John?”  _ Please wake up so I can stop touching you; I am never touching you again.  _

 

Slowly, Mycroft’s eyes pried open and he stared at John for a few seconds in blank confusion. It dawned on him quickly. Standing up from his chair, Mycroft brushed his thumb against the side of his mouth and gathered his things quickly. He hadn’t changed, his hair was messier than John had ever seen it, and the man moved as if his back hurt him. John had sympathy. For a few seconds, they didn't speak. Mycroft's face was flushed in embarrassment before he cleared his throat.

 

“You’ll be here today for him?”

 

“Yeah, of course,” John responded. “You’ve still got ... I mean, for Mary ..?”

 

“People looking? Of course. Best men are on it, I assure you.” Maybe it was just waking up, but Mycroft just pinched his nose for a second and tried to look sincere. He just came off as frustrated.  “Dr. Watson, I do promise that I am. I may not be  _ fond  _ of your wife for what she did to my younger brother, but that does not mean I’m going to abandon a pregnant woman. She matters to you, you matter to my brother. I’ve done worse things for him.”

 

It was an answer to a question John hadn’t realized he had. “Great. Good. Thanks. And Moran?”

 

Mycroft went a little paler and nodded. “I will be looking into it. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

 

He was alone. Aside from his hand, Sherlock was the same as John had last seen him. He didn’t move at all, the oxygen cannula still placed solidly underneath his nose.

 

Jesus, John hated this. For once in his life, he didn’t  _ want  _ to tend to a patient. He  _ wanted  _ to find his wife. Sherlock was safe, here, and just being around Sherlock made John sad and helpless. But, Mycroft was right. This wasn't him and Sherlock solving a little murder case in a quiet part of London. This was rather large and important, and Mycroft cleaned up messes for a living.

 

“Alright, Sherlock, just you and me for a few hours,” John informed him, placing the bag down and bringing out a few books and a few newspaper clippings he’d made when he hadn’t been able to sleep. Surely there was  _ something  _ here on Moran. There had to be more info on him.

 

_ Ah, yes, because I’m sure a disgraced Colonel would enjoy making a name of himself.  _

 

It came out so clearly in his mind that John had to look over at the man in the bed to make sure that he hadn’t uttered the words, and he sighed out. “I’m going fuckin’ mad.”  _Besides, you cock,_ John thought solidly,  _it's not the same Moran as mine. Can't be. Surely there's two Morans in the Army, they could both even be Colonels. The Moran I knew wasn't capable of this._

 

It was a few hours and John had all but given up. There was just no information that he could find; it was as if this man had been struck from public records completely. Surely Mycroft would find something, though. 

 

He had resorted to idle chatter with Sherlock, instead. It helped keep his mind from going into darker  _ what-ifs;  _ the morbid thinking that, if Sherlock didn’t wake up and Mary wasn’t found, he’ll have lost everyone he loved. Again. 

 

“Everything will turn out,” he informed Sherlock’s unconscious figure. “And you’ll be on bedrest and  _ miserable  _ once everything happens. Probably the baby being born, too, you’ll still have to relax.” He turned a page. “Christ, you ever think  _ this  _ would all happen? I always figured I’d get married, but kids ... I never really thought about them. Now, I’m settled down, having a girl. You’re always the same, though. Still an insufferable prick.”  Putting down the book, John frowned at Sherlock before returning. “You know, it doesn’t feel as good mocking you when you’re not awake. Feels a bit cruel, actually.”

 

_ Babbling to cover up your own worries. Making up your own stupid theories because you can’t see what’s going on. Does it frustrate you, John? Your brain being so small?  _

 

Damn it. John needed a walk. Inhaling sharply, he stood up and put his hand on the doorknob. Surely he’d just have a brisk walk. Sherlock hadn’t changed in hours and John was going crazy.

 

“John,” Anthea’s voice chirped at him from the other side of the door. “Mycroft had a file pulled out for you.”

 

_ Damn it.  _

 

“Have you been out here this entire time?” John interrogated her, not in the mood for his usual hopeless flirting. Besides. He was married. 

 

“No, no. Mycroft made an estimate of the time you’d start getting antsy and had me come by.” Her nose wrinkled in amusement when she saw John’s shocked expression. “He’s  _ strange  _ like that, I know. Here you are, John.” Her face lapsed into something sad. “And ... read it thoroughly.”

 

His walk having been ruined, John returned to his chair. He laid out the file on Sherlock’s bed and took a deep breath.

 

What the hell was going to be in there? Would it be Mary’s whereabouts? Moran? 

 

Sherlock’s medical file.

 

Why the hell would Mycroft send him  _ this?  _

 

It started at the beginning, at first, John was just curious to find out more about Sherlock. If anything, it was something to occupy his time with while he waited next to his friendn. Sherlock was extraordinarily reticent on his own past. It wasn’t as if John had waxed poetic about his, either, but anything he told Sherlock was usually forgotten, anyway. Frankly, John was just touched that Sherlock had started to remember his birthday. He'd even given him an odd watch one year.

 

A few broken bones in childhood, a rather nasty bout of pneumonia when he was six. John smiled a little, going through those. He always fancied Sherlock to be a very active, rambunctious child. Hah, yes, bee stings on both him and his brother. Poking at a hive, no doubt.

 

Things started getting darker the farther he went on. 

 

Although they never explained the situation, John could fill in the gaps. Black eyes, contusions, lacerations. Getting beat up at school. Then there was a gap in time where Sherlock didn’t come in at all, and then --

 

_ Signs of narcotic usage. Morphine. Cocaine. Trouble staying conscious. Labored breathing. Dilated pupils. Seizure. High paranoia. Treat with caution.  _

 

“Hell, Sherlock,” John breathed out, looking over at Sherlock whenever he came to something particularly dangerous. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard of these -- he was a bloody doctor - but to associate  _ Sherlock,  _ who could be brilliant and perfectly put together, with ...  _ this? This bad?  _ He always hated to think of Sherlock as some sort of junkie. It dehumanized him, it ... well, it shamed him. 

 

\--

 

“ _ Get away from me,” Sherlock found himself spitting, up against a corner of some drug den. His pupils were blown wide and he looked to be in a proper state. His white school shirt was thrown open and his sleeves were rolled up. He looked  _ filthy -  _ that wasn’t a surprise, given the state of the cardboard box remnants he’d been lying on.  _

 

_ Before him, a man - significantly older than him, with red hair, a little portly, bit sensitive about it - “Sherlock,” the man said. His voice was pleading. “We have to go, now. Do you understand? We have to go?” _

 

_ “You’re going to take me away. You said so, the last time, you said ‘the next time I found you like this’, that’s what you  _ said,”  _ Sherlock whined back petulantly.  _

 

_ Mycroft opened his mouth for a second before the world suddenly laid down for Sherlock, and the man went toppling at his feet. _

\--

 

_ Chipped tooth. Bruising on left side of face. Fractured shoulder.  _

 

It was a lot. John read it all, regardless, continually surprised by all of it. It wasn’t just drug-related injuries, too -- there were fight injuries, and he could see some injuries where he must’ve gotten hurt on a case, breaking into homes or confronting suspects ... 

 

What kind of man had Sherlock Holmes been? What kind of man  _ was  _ Sherlock Holmes? John suddenly felt a lot less connected to the man sitting in the bed.

 

And suddenly, John was thrust into familiarity. There was a lot less, here. Not that Sherlock Holmes hadn’t gotten himself into trouble, but he usually went crying to John to tend him up, not bring him to a hospital. He smiled at the few reports there were. Never anything terrible. In fact, they brought up some memories on cases. When Sherlock had gotten ill from a suspect and had refused to stay on bedrest. Instead, he preferred to get as far as he could out of the flat and end up passing out in the living room. John had brought him in because he'd hit his head, and they had kept him for the pneumonia.

 

The next page he turned was a sticky note.

 

_ This does not concern anyone but you. I trust you’ll keep it that way. -M _

 

How much worse could it be? That was only a few years ago,  just before Sherlock’s suicide stunt. And John had always figured that he’d just cocked about the world for a few years  before deciding to come back.

 

John was wrong.

 

There was a two year gap, of course, John had figured that, but there was a report at Sherlock’s return to London. And it was ... horrific. 

 

Severe, gruesome lacerations on his back. Burns. Signs of heavy drug use, malnutrition, dehydration, mild case of hypothermia. Multiple wounds from the feet that indicated that Sherlock had been  _ fleeing,  _ surely, and overall? John recognized this. These were signs of torture.

 

What the  _ hell  _ had Sherlock gotten up to while he was away? What the hell had he done? He had figured that Sherlock had changed a  _ little  _ upon coming back, but what the  _ hell ...?   _

 

The medical file ended. 

 

John swallowed, his voice dry. Surely this had something to do with it -- and surely  _ this  _ would something to do with Moriarty. Right now, though, he just couldn’t wrap his head around all that. He just thought about how much pain Sherlock must’ve been in. How afraid he must’ve been, surely. Someone chasing after Sherlock, hurting him ... he felt angry, and concerned. He couldn't imagine the scene without wanting to vomit.  _Sherlock, Jesus. How scared you must've been._

 

For what? Why the hell ...? 

 

Leaning over, he took Sherlock’s hand.

 

They’d never been physically affectionate. At all. It pained the both of them terribly to stop being stuffy around one another. But now, though, John just grasped at the clammy skin and bowed his head a little.

 

_ Really? It only took a round of torture for you to be sentimental? You’re worse than me, John, honestly.  _

 

They probably wouldn’t talk about it. John had already vowed not to let Sherlock know that he knew. That conversation would only hurt Sherlock, actually, and he'd been hurt so much already. John would just keep it a secret.

 

\---

 

“Oh! Oh, sorry, I wasn’t sure if you were in or not,” Molly apologized, walking into the hospital room with some papers in hand. John looked up from his spot on the bed, immediately loosening his grasp on Sherlock’s hand. Shit. Well, Molly wasn’t one to gossip, anyway. The more incriminating thing, the file, had been hidden away. 

 

Looking at Sherlock, Molly chuckled. “I wasn’t sure if he was  _ awake  _ or not.”

 

“No. No, this is the 2nd day he’s been under. They’ve said ... I don’t know. Usually, two to four weeks. But he’s so stable that they’re not sure why he’s not waking up.”

 

Molly visibly deflated at that, and John couldn’t help but invite her in closer. She was one of the few normal people, here - and John was very, very grateful for that. “Oh. Do we know ... anything that happened?”

 

It hit John that she must’ve been left entirely out of the loop.

 

“No. No, we don’t, not ... not yet. It was an attack, and Mary’s gone missing, too.”

 

“Mary? Oh, John, I’m so sorry.” 

 

Holding up his hand, John shook his head. “Don’t apologize. It’s a mess, but it’s ... we’re working on it. Everyone is. Mycroft’s not talked to you at all?”

 

Molly smiled a little. “No. No, I don’t think Mycroft talks to anyone that doesn’t have a direct influence over Sherlock.”

 

“Don’t say that.” John shook his head. “Look, I know he’s a massive  _ berk  _ \-- but Sherlock does like you. He wouldn’t keep you around if he didn’t, and ... I know the, erm, he’ll never  _ feel  _ the same way --” Or would he? “But he obviously trusts you. I mean, hell, when he decided to die for a couple of years, you’re one of the few he told.” Shifting awkwardly, John added, "Besides, erm. You deserve better. Romantically, I mean, you deserve someone who's kind to you, who's honest to you."

 

She had gotten closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. With two fingers, she curled them around Sherlock’s and gave the unconscious man a sad smile. “I’m not gone on him anymore. I mean, not  _ really,  _ not more than anyone else is.”

 

“That’s for the best, how mad Sherlock is. Sherlock doesn’t go after anyone, and I don’t think anyone should go after him. Not while he’s so ...  _ bloody  _ volatile.”

 

“Volatile’s one word,” Molly agreed. She grew more somber. “And I’m not sure why he told me. I mean, I know  _ why  _ he did, but I don’t know if it was because he trusted me or he needed something. Probably both. That’s how he is.” 

 

“Needed something?”

 

Her smile went to John, turned sad. “Sorry. Promised I wouldn’t tell anyone. I don’t really know much about it; I was only there for a small bit of it.”

 

\--

 

_ There were feet stomping overhead. Sherlock could hear them. Usually the morgue was so quiet, but he could hear rumbling going on above ground. He wondered if one of those pounding feet was John. John, on the phone,  _ Jesus,  _ he hadn’t expected it to hit him so hard. _

 

_ “Are you okay?”  _

 

_ Molly’s voice. _

 

_ “Not dead,” he responded, taking a cigarette and lighting it. Molly didn’t stop him, thank God. Sherlock was too close to a breakdown for this and he didn’t want to show it. Moriarty was dead. John was alive.  And he was only beginning this, this stupid little venture that would most likely result in his death. But he was doing it to save people -- including the overly worried pathologist in front of him. Who he did care for, even if he felt the mild urge to just start rapidly apologising. _

 

_ “What are you going to do, now? What about John?” _

 

_ “John’s suffered worse losses.” Probably. “Regardless, I can’t protect him from himself. I can, however, protect him from others. And ... everyone, of course, all of my .. “ The word felt heavy on his tongue. “Friends.” _

 

_ “You’re going to protect us.” _

 

_ “There’s still dangerous people in the world.” Sighing, Sherlock checked his phone and shut his eyes for a few seconds. “Can I stay with you? For a few days? I, ehm. Obvious reasons, can’t return to Baker Street.” _

 

_ \--- _

 

The medical file went to John’s mind. “He didn’t tell you where he was going? After, I mean?”

 

“The last time I saw him before he came back was at the morgue, waiting for everything to die down. I asked him what the plan was -- I was so  _ stupid  _ back then, I thought that he’d bring me along or something -- and he just said that there were dangerous people out there that he needed to stop.”

 

“What, like some sort of vigilante?”

 

“No, no. I think ... “ Molly bit her lip. “I think he did what he did to protect you. Well, all of us, I think, but obviously, especially  _ you.  _ And to do that, he had to get rid of the threats.”

 

Had Sherlock turned into a mass-murderer during his absence? What had happened?

 

He needed to check the flat again. Sherlock collected  _ everything,  _ every newspaper snippet that would be useful later on. Surely it was there.

 

“You’ve thought of something, haven’t you.” Molly’s voice brought him out of his stupor. 

 

“You’re an angel,” John informed her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “And you deserve a hell of a lot better than this bastard lying in the bed. I have to go. Can you --?”

 

“Yeah.” Reaching for her bag, Molly brought out her dinner and gave John a smile. “That was the plan. I couldn’t stay out of the loop forever.”

  
Grinning, John stood up and fetched his keys. It was incredibly late and he was tired, but he knew he couldn’t stay here all night. He had to plan things, and it was always hard to think with Sherlock around. 

_ Especially  _ since Sherlock would not infrequently call you out on thinking near him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, happy Saturday! Same things still apply. Thanks the comments, please leave one below if you'd like, and I'll see you all next Saturday!


	4. Day 3

The next day, John felt considerably more confident. They had a plan, after all -- well, he did. Even with Sherlock in a considerably  _ un _ helpful position, John couldn’t stop of thinking of them in the plural. It just felt natural.

 

Sherlock kept everything. He’d find something, there, in the flat. He was confident, this time.

 

Going into the flat again, he was more than a little surprised to see Mrs. Hudson hoovering in the living room.

 

“Oh! John! I didn’t expect you in,” she told him, going over immediately for a hug and a kiss on the cheek. They’d spoken a little more frequently, too -- Mrs. Hudson knew all of Sherlock’s drug crannies as well as John did. And while he  _ did  _ feel bad having Mrs. Hudson prying up the loose floorboard in Sherlock’s room, it was less suspicious than John coming in and doing it. “How’ve you been, dearie? How is Sherlock?”

 

“He’s ... the usual,” John remarked, standing back from Mrs. Hudson. “Hasn’t changed, much. They say that ... well, if he’s going to wake up, his window is soon. So that’s exciting. And I’m fine.”

 

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes turned sad for a second. “And Mary?”

 

“We’re working on it.” John’s voice was firm. “She’s ... she’s a tough woman. Toughest one I know, actually. Maybe not as much as you,” his eyes were twinkling fondly, “but if anyone can hold their own, Mary can.”

 

“She will,” Mrs. Hudson reassured him. “Why are you here? Did you need something?”

 

“I’ve been looking for something that Sherlock might’ve had. Just going to pop back into his room and see.”

 

“Better you than me, you know, it really is a  _ mess.  _ Good luck, John. I’ll be downstairs making lunch. I’ll bring up something -- you look starving.”

 

Christ, John really  _ was  _ starving. It was hard to remember the last time he’d ate -- last night, maybe? Suddenly, it was a lot easier to realize why Sherlock went so long without eating. This was bloody exciting. John could hardly remember things like food. 

 

He ventured into Sherlock’s room and noted that it was, indeed, a mess. Not usual Sherlock’s ‘carefully organized’ mess, either - it looked like the place had been ransacked. His ‘costume closet’ was completely torn apart and all the clothes thrown on the bed.

 

Mind, he didn’t know when Sherlock would have to dress up like a clown, a hobbit, or a 19th century English soldier, but he definitely had the clothing for it if he had to.

 

Someone had come in. 

 

Probably the same person who’d taken Mary.

 

He ventured cautiously, suddenly wishing that he’d taken the Browning with him. He had to scour the entire room, and he decided to start first with the nightstand. 

 

It hit him that he was probably going to get a lot more insight to Sherlock’s past than he ever wanted, but frankly, his head was still spinning with the idea that Sherlock had undergone torture. It felt like he was getting to know the man all over again -- but not in the nice, pleasant way that felt like walking into the ocean. Slow steps, occasionally being surprised by an occasional wave. This felt more like being caught up in a riptide. The thought of Sherlock - his git - being hurt like that, so much ... it was a lot to take in.

 

The top drawer was uneventful. Reading glasses - his lip curled. Sherlock was getting a little old, wasn’t he? 

 

A book of ... ancient Scottish castles, alright. Several places were bookmarked and John could see scribbled notes, but for the life of him, he couldn’t understand what ‘MFS Thursday’ or ‘Hammer Grooves’ meant.

 

Underneath was possibly the trashiest mystery novel he’d ever seen. A hawk-nosed, brunette detective peered out from the front with a magnifying glass towards the audience, his faithful (but obviously slightly bumbling ) sidekick was at his side.

 

Of course Sherlock was reading this. 

 

Shutting the drawer with a smile, John went for the bottom drawer and pulled it open.

 

And immediately slammed it shut.

 

Right, well. There were some things about Sherlock he didn’t want to know, after all. 

Particularly, what color he liked his vibrator.

 

_ I get  _ lonely,  _ John.  _

 

Rubbing at his eyes a little, he went back to the closet to investigate. Most of the boxes were thrown all about the room, scatterings of newspaper clippings or old photographs operating as a makeshift carpet.

 

There was nothing. Nothing ... nothing here. But there was somewhere else he could check.

 

Where John moved out of a bedroom, Sherlock found a new storage room.

 

He reviewed the room a little sadly. Although he’d never mention it to Mary, he sometimes felt a strong urge to come  _ back  _ there. This place, with all of its messes and nonsense, was home, and John just sat on the edge of his bed for a few seconds. It felt odd. The last time he’d been in here ... well, he’d been getting his things together before going to the funeral.

 

Under his bed. John knew well enough that the closet would be empty, but it wasn’t unlike Sherlock to store things (noxious or not) underneath his bed.

 

And John’s intuition was rewarded.

 

He pulled out a large box underneath his bed with a padlock slapped on it. 4 digit code. 

 

Well, great. Now, he had to guess what the hell four-digit code Sherlock would’ve used. It could’ve been something entirely random. 

 

He thought back to the medical file, about how his entire  _ body  _ had lurched when he’d seen it. If this had what John thought it had -- then somehow, John thought sentiment would betray Sherlock just this once. Sherlock couldn't betray his heart forever.

 

_ 1-8-9-5.  _ No.

_ 7-4-3-7. S-H-E-R.  _ No.

_ 5-6-4-6. J-O-H-N.  _ No.

_ 6-2-7-9. M-A-R-Y.  _ No. 

 

In a fit of impetus, John typed in  _ 2-6-5-3. C-O-K-E.  _ Again, not let in.  _ 3-8-2-5, F-U-C-K,  _  didn’t work either.

 

_ Just think, John, think about what I would’ve done.  _ Sherlock’s voice was insistent this time as John imagined it.  _ Think about what a selfish dickhead I am.  _

 

He tried Sherlock’s birthday. Nothing.

He tried Ms. Hudson’s birthday. Nothing.

He tried his own.

 

\--

 

_ An ingenious idea, really. It wasn’t like John ever minded Sherlock forgetting his birthday until Sherlock was hastily declining the ‘birthday dinner’ -- but John would be pleased if he did remember, and frankly, he needed a code for the box. _

 

_ He went back to the box weekly. John wasn’t here anymore, John didn’t care if it was stored underneath his bed. And perhaps attaching something sentimental to it, something mundane -- a birthday -- would stop the dread he felt whenever he popped it open. The memories, the uncomfortable ... twinge. On his back. _

 

_ John’s next birthday, just a few months after he had come back, he presented his friend with a gift. _

 

_ ‘You remembered?’ His voice was incredulous. Ah, simple, extraordinary John. _

 

_ ‘Yes, yes,’ he answered impatiently. ‘I’ve got you a new brand of shaving cream, Mary thinks the one you have smells a bit like piss, and ... a pocketwatch. I’m aware they’re not really in style anymore, but I figured -- as a bit of goodwill -- I’ve had Mary’s photo put on the inside of it.’ _

 

_ ‘You got me a watch with a photo of my fiance inside it.’ _

 

_ ‘Not good?’ _

 

_ The present had hurt, a little.  _

 

\--

 

Everything inside the box was everything John needed.

 

Lists of people Sherlock had taken down, detailed (a little too much, actually) explanations of how he did it.

 

Murder wasn’t the most common choice, but it was there. 

 

Several had been locked away, their sentences and crimes written in careful, neat handwriting next to their names. Several had fled without money and with men chasing after them. Sherlock had sold a few out to local gangs, mafia. Had ruined the lives of a few, leaving them penniless and without connections. Some were dead. Those were written, slower, more halting hand.

 

None of the names were familiar. John went through the box with increasing frustrating, nearly pawing at the bottom until he came upon a map of Europe.

 

It wasn’t dated, but Sherlock was getting closer and closer to England. 

That was when he started finding the notes on Moran. 

 

Nothing that detailed personal history, and all the notes were written in Sherlock’s incomprehensible shorthand.

 

_ Moran movement to Ukraine. Speak with other members of the web - already been wiped out. Won’t be happy. _

 

_ To Germany. Why? What else is there? No leadership potential. _

 

_ Ducking out of view of all cameras. Can only track payments.  _

 

Then, something, very intense --

 

**_MORAN GOING TO ENGLAND._ **

 

Although John had no idea,  he felt his stomach drop. He could almost sense Sherlock’s urgency, his panic -- why was he so afraid of Moran going to England? Afraid that someone would recognize him? Suddenly, the idea of the bumbling, alcoholic Moran he knew popped into his head. Had that crass arsehole taken his wife? Hurt Sherlock? 

 

_ He’s tracked down all of John’s movements he’s got photos of John he’s tracking down John he’s going after John _

 

That looked to be written on a napkin, and John suddenly squeezed his hand tight as it trembled.

 

Oh. 

 

Sherlock was coming back to England for him. To protect him. The exact way he had protected him on that rooftop.

 

John was overcome with an emotion -- what, he didn’t know. Gratitude, maybe. Love. It was hitting him, all at once, how much Sherlock had done for him -- how much Sherlock had given up for him. He was sure guilt would hit him, later, but now ... he couldn’t feel more proud or more thankful to have Sherlock as his best friend. If Sherlock had been there, John wasn't too convinced he wouldn't have kissed him on the spot.

 

He let it soak into him for a few seconds before nodding to himself and continuing.

 

The next entries were ones of surprise and suspicion. Moran, apparently, had changed his trip to Serbia -- had he forgotten something? Had something alerted him? And Sherlock was planning on following him there. It was much safer than England, after all.

 

That was where the entries stopped. John glanced at the notes and saw that they were two weeks before Sherlock returned. 

 

Serbia was where he’d gotten tortured.

 

Serbia had been an ambush.

 

Moran was here. And Moran was going after John, as soon as he got rid of the two biggest safeguards in John’s life -- Mary and Sherlock.

 

And then Moran was going after him. 

 

It all depended on how cruel Moran was. If he was an evil, twisted monster -- Mary was  _ pregnant,  _ for God’s sake. Perhaps he only aimed to incapacitate - and then once he got John, it would be all over. Not that John would give himself up, willingly. Not out of selfishness, but for God’s sake, how many poor people would Moran go after?

 

He cleaned up the box as best as he could. Now that he had a bit more information, he could go to Mycroft. Paranoia started to get at him - maybe Moran had bugged his flat, or had started to follow him. 

 

_ You always had such fanciful theories, John.  _

 

That reminded him. Before that, before he went home, he had to go see Sherlock.

 

\--

“I don’t think I tell you often enough how much of a knob you are,” John accused the man, sitting beside him. When he’d gotten back, he had sat down beside Sherlock. It was late; the room had been empty. Mycroft would probably have a fit if he knew. Chatting as if Sherlock could readily answer him back. “Doing all that for me. Falling off a building, getting tortured in Serbia. Granted, I imagine there were a fair few other people involved, too, but ... still. You could’ve just told me. One word. You didn’t even get a thank you, Christ.”

 

He was holding onto Sherlock’s hand again, listening to the faint  _ beep-beep-beep  _ of the heart monitor. It was a touchingly sentimental moment. John had felt guilty, for the most part. He could count on one hand the number of times he hugged Sherlock or told him how important he was to him. And now that he had realized the depth of how much Sherlock cared, well ... Jesus. Holding his hand while he was asleep was the least he could do.

 

“When you wake up, I won’t embarrass you about it. Still, though, sometimes -- and not all the time, mind, I’m not totally losing it -- I just wish we could  _ talk.  _ About stupid, sentimental things. I can’t imagine how you were feeling. Coming back, after all this, and finding out I’m getting married. To a woman who ended up shooting you! God.

 

Not that I blame myself, obviously. I’m grateful you did what you did, but two years? Not letting me know? What was I supposed to do, grieve for you the rest of my life? No, Sher, I can’t wait forever for you. I’m still my own man.”

  
  


Sherlock, as ever, didn’t move. John smiled over at him anyway.

 

“Well, this one thing, I’ll do for you. One last name to get rid of. And I promise, I’ll get rid of Moran. And I’ll bring Mary back, and you’ll wake up, and everything will be fine. And you won’t have to do anything that  _ insane,  _ or stupid, or ...  _ you,  _ again.”

 

Taking Sherlock’s hand up, he just pressed the knuckles against his lips. He didn’t particularly know why -- it was just so much that he had figured out, throughout the day, and he figured ... well. He figured, now, Sherlock deserved some excessive comfort. Some kindness.

 

He hada settled himself and had nearly fallen asleep in his chair before his phone buzzed. John figured it was Mycroft before he saw it was a message.

 

Mary. Hands tied up behind her back, looking up at the camera with fierce determination with tape over her mouth. Her clothes were worn, she looked tired. John felt panic zap through him.

 

An address was given.

 

_ Come alone in three days. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a total knob for not posting this yesterday, but it'd been a crazy week, unfortunately! Next post should be Saturday on the dot, though, so that should be good! Thanks for all the comments!


	5. Day Six

It was the day.

 

John had gone over it with Mycroft and Lestrade, and it was generally agreed upon - within thirty minutes if John didn’t come out, they’d go in. Mary was the priority. John had made sure of that. His wife needed to be rescued and made safe, even if it meant that this was John's final showdown. They'd talked for at least an hour, grim faces over a grey table. Unlike Sherlock, they knew how to be serious and this was  _very_ serious, indeed.

 

Now, though, he was sitting with Sherlock in the hospital room, alone. He wasn’t afraid -- determined was probably the word. 

 

Still, he couldn't help but think of what would happen if he died. Sherlock would probably have to be involved a lot more in Mary's and the baby's life, being godfather. It was hard to imagine. Sherlock, acting like a stand-in father. Bottle feeding, changing nappies. Sherlock didn't look to have a parental bone in his body, but he did swear to protect everyone. And staying up all night holding a cough-ridden newborn did qualify, loosely, under the term 'protection'.

 

He wanted to give some big sappy speech to Sherlock, but the man wouldn’t hear it anyway. Besides. Sherlock knew everything he wanted to say.

 

“If all goes well, I’ll have Mary back here by the evening,” John told him, sitting on the edge of the bed. Sherlock’s condition hadn’t changed yet, still pale, still giving the occasional irritating twitch that would only raise John’s blood pressure. But, it would be fine. “And if all doesn’t go well ... er, sorry about that. I always had the feeling you wanted to go together, like some ridiculous last stand.”

 

Usually, this was Sherlock’s sort of thing. To run off somewhere that could very well be a trap. Unlike Sherlock, though, John had the decency to tell someone.

 

Mycroft had tracked the address. Some abandoned meat shop. Lovely. They were never anywhere decent, were they? All closed museums and warehouses and train stations. John hadn't seen the seedier side of London before he started to hang around Sherlock Holmes.

 

When he stepped onto the curb, John just took a deep breath. Around him, people pushed the odd man who was staring at an abandoned  _ shop,  _ of all things, but John couldn’t force himself to move.

 

How long had Mary been here? She was  _ pregnant,  _ for Christ’s sakes, what sort of  _ monster  _ would do that? Take him, take Sherlock, take anyone, but don't take his pregnant wife.

  
  


Well, it wasn’t any use waiting around. John gently ran his hand over the gun in his waistband before going in.

 

It was musty. The damp humidity from outside had sauntered in, settling low and immediately making John uncomfortably clammy. The tiles were cracked and faded. In front of him were two display cases. The glass on one had broken; the other had a spiderweb, swaying in the breeze. He smelled mould.

 

Holding his breath, he pushed his way behind the main counter and hesitated on the door. It wasn’t fear. God, no, but he felt as if something were  _ missing,  _ somehow, like he’d left his umbrella just before going out in the rain.

 

_ Well, your best friend’s comatose right now, John, so you’ll just have to get a bit wet.  _

 

He could handle himself. John pushed his way in. Sherlock Holmes always liked to be the big damn hero of the day, but John sure as hell didn't need that long-coated  _arsehole_  with himto go and save the day himself.

 

Hooks were still hanging from the ceiling, swaying slightly. It was a lot colder, there, and John immediately reached for his handgun as he went along. “Mary? Mary, are you here?” Or perhaps he should be asking for someone else. He made his voice a little more authoritative. “Moran. I’ve come for my wife.”

 

_'I've come for my wife.' Really?_   


 

“I think that’ll be Colonel to you, John.” 

 

Mary’s words, light and teasing, made John’s stomach drop.

 

\---

 

_ Doped up and sore, Sherlock was staring out the window. Sherlock Holmes was in no good mood. The hospital bed was starchy and stiff and he felt like he'd been gnawing on his pillow in his sleep. Or had a bloody great hangover. He and Mycroft were engaged in a childish tousle involving the morphine pump. Whenever Mycroft was talking, Sherlock would dramatically sigh and turn it to its highest option. Whenever Sherlock returned his gaze to the window, Mycroft would turn it down again. _

 

_ “You are aware that I could have her sent away, yes? Permanently?” Mycroft had known, of course. Since the moment he saw Mary, likely. Sherlock didn’t waste time figuring out how when he had more important matters to worry about. He liked playing deductions with his brother, but playing deductions ex post facto was dull. _

 

_ Best friend’s wife had shot him through the heart. Thank  _ God  _ he hated symbolism. _

 

_ “Really? No. Please, vaguely explain your job title to me once again.” Sherlock turned to his brother, who was leaning uncomfortably close against the bed. The concern in his eyes was barely concealed. He was biting his bottom lip, knuckles white on his umbrella handle. It made him ill to look at. Sherlock turned up the morphine pump. “You’re not mentioning it to Mary. Not a word, not a single word.” _

 

_ “And why not?” _

 

_ Morphine pump was down again. _

 

_ Sherlock muttered something out indecipherable, intentionally so. Mycroft, though, seemed to understand. _

 

_ “It isn’t because of John, is it?” _

 

_ Maybe, Sherlock looked guilty as the morphine dosage increased.  _

 

_ Mycroft scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “I’m starting to believe that perhaps John wasn’t the best influence on you. At least, not after his marriage. You know how simple he is. He’ll bounce back very quickly if his wife were to suddenly ... disappear.” _

 

_ “I can handle it on my own.” Sherlock replied solidly. “I just ... I need to think, Mycroft, about everything. Mary’s frightened, and if something happened -- well, if what she was scared of just disappeared ... she wouldn’t do anything like this again.” And maybe, just maybe, he didn't want to give John another reason to hate him. Friendships had been ended over much less -- missed dinner dates, petty squabbles, simple maturation of two individuals who didn't like each other as much as they thought they had. Sherlock didn't want to tempt fate any more than he already did. _

 

_ The dosage went back down so quickly that the remote beeped in protest. _

 

_ \-- _

 

“Mary?” John’s voice was hesitant as he turned around.

 

Yes, there was Mary. Dressed in her usual and not as roughed-up as she'd been in the photo. 

 

_ Staying in a hotel, actually, long-term. You can tell from the cheap hair dryer that leaves the hair closest to her head a little bit damp. If you had bothered to look through her things at home, you probably would have noticed some clothes missing. She’s been cooking her own meals, likely staying quiet in the hotel. Ooh, mind, she’s got another gun strapped to her hip.  _

 

Great, so he could deduce only when he was imagining Sherlock’s bloody voice in his head. 

 

“Yes. Sorry about all this. Everything’s probably a little confusing, right now.” Mary was gesturing a gun at him, and John was stock-still. His gun was in his own hand, but ... hell. How could he raise it? He wasn’t entirely sure this wasn’t a trick. His mind went back to the pool, the few minutes he was being used as a puppet by Moriarty. “To  _ everyone,  _ believe me. Pity that Sherlock couldn’t be here, hm?”

 

“Mary, what the hell is all this?” His throat was dry and he could barely get the words out.  _ Fuck.  _ “What the  _ hell  _ are you doing?”

 

“It’s a lot to explain, John, and I ... well, you know. Time’s short.”

 

“But what about Moran?” No, no, this wasn’t  _ right.  _ There had been evidence -- evidence! John was dead set on it being the Army Colonel. That person was so easy to hate, so easy to swear vengeance on. This was his _wife._  

 

“Sebastian Moran was an alcoholic that Moriarty kept an eye on. When he died ... well, we had a free name available, didn’t we? Had to do something to throw your little bloodhound off the trail. Couldn’t work forever, though, he was starting to catch on.”

 

“This ... this whole time.” John could barely get out. “This whole bloody time, after I forgave you when you  _ shot him -- !” _

 

To her credit, Mary looked sincerely sad. The wedding ring glinted on her finger. John could see it from where he was standing. “The wedding was really nice,” she informed him apologetically. “And the proposal was really rather sweet. Everything was, John, you’re a very nice man.”

 

It sounded so ... distant. Like John was just a stranger.

 

“But -- the baby?” 

 

The curve was still there, and Mary’s face would occasionally twitch with discomfort. Standing so long probably wasn’t for the best for her ankles. 

 

“Yes, well -- I certainly didn’t expect that.” Mary’s voice was light as she looked down at the swell. “I suppose it’s the reason I waited so long. Bit hard to do this  _ and  _ be heavily pregnant, but ... I just didn’t have time. Moriarty's impatient. Always has been."

 

“You certainly had time to bash Sherlock’s bloody brain in,” John accused her.

 

A shrug, and the gun was back up. “Like I said, John, he was getting a little too close to figuring things out.”

 

_ This is a shock, isn’t it? And really more your area, I would say.  _

 

“Then why did you call me here? If your secret identity was so damn important.”

 

Mary gave a shrug. “It’s what my employer told me to do. Bring you here, reveal myself, and then send you on your way. You’re all madmen, you and the Holmeses and Moriarty -- but you pay well and the job security’s excellent, so. I get a message, I do what I'm told. Nobody knows the whole plan."

 

“You can’t just -- Mary, you’re pregnant. That’s  _ my  _ kid.”

 

Not that he was even thinking of the small fetus, now. His head was spinning. Mary, his wife -- working for Moriarty, the entire time. A dead man. She had been working for him when he’d told her that she loved him, every romantic, sappy e-mail he’d ever sent, the marriage, every doctor’s appointment. She’d been working for him.

 

He hadn’t even realized he’d taken several steps forward  before Mary was flicking the safety off.

 

“Believe me, I know. But this is a lot more important than you or Sherlock, sweetheart, so if you get any closer, I will shoot you.” She was ... she was tearing up. John didn’t want to believe it, but Mary’s chin was trembling and she was swallowing deeply. “John, I did love you. I do. So much, actually, but this -- “ She tried to compose herself. “It’s for the best, I’m sorry. I've got no choice."

 

Could he fix this? Was this fixable? Just a few hours ago, he’d been daydreaming about him and Mary and Sherlock, all trying to laugh about this someday. It had seemed just another zany hijink in their life. But suddenly, John felt like a part of him was being ripped off. His potentially happy domestic life - in pieces.

 

And it didn’t help that she seemed upset. Maybe he would’ve felt better about it if Mary was a stone-cold killer, but ... they had made a life together, damn it. They were going to be a family, the fucking nursery had already been painted purple.

 

“Mary, please, just ... stop this. Stop this, and put it down, and we can go back and -- Sherlock promised he’d protect you. So if you’re scared someone’s going to come after you if you don’t obey their orders ... “

 

“Oh, John.” Her tone was mildly condescending. “This is so much bigger than you know, sweetheart. I can’t stop, even if I wanted to. Every cog has to spin. Every line of code has to function.”

 

Christ, that sounded like something Sherlock would say. John felt his throat tighten a little. He  _ hated  _ feeling like an idiot. One would think he’d get used to it, running around with Sherlock, but Sherlock also had a way of making a bloke feel like the most important one in the world. But now ... John had married a woman, had been fooled by her once, had forgiven her ... had been fooled again ...   
  


_Shame on me._   


 

"You're more than just a line of code, Mary, Jesus."

 

“Not another step, John. You know, now, that’s the next part of the plan done. Just leave, and ... Sherlock will be alright, he will. I didn’t hurt him hard enough to kill him.” A pause. "I don't know what happens next, but you need to get out of this. Do you understand? You, and Sherlock, and  _everyone._ You'll all die because of this, and I can't see that. I could've killed Sherlock, but I didn't. I don't want to kill him."

 

“Just like you didn’t shoot him to kill him?” John’s voice was coming out harder. He was  _ angry,  _ goddammit.

 

“Would you rather if I did?” 

 

This was it, then. John was alone. His wife, the mother of his child, his best friend in hospital. He couldn't get any words out, couldn't speak, could hardly even  _breathe._

 

“I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

 

_ The baby,  _ John managed to think through the panicked haze.  _ She can’t just leave, she’s pregnant. With my kid. She can’t just go.  _

 

“Wait -- !” John raised a hand to stop her, his unarmed one. 

 

Whether Mary thought that he was about to go after her or whether she was just shocked into pulling the trigger, it didn’t matter. John was hit.

 

He fell hard and he could only hear one voice.

  
_ John?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday, everyone! All of your comments have been super lovely and thank you for all the support. See you next week!


	6. Day 14

Waking up was unceremonious. There was no out-of-body sensation, he wasn’t trapped inside of his body. He was simply asleep one moment, and awake the next.

 

Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes after 14 days of not being a  _massive_ dick.

 

His brain was docile and slow for about a few seconds, before everything snapped into focus and Sherlock could not stop thinking.

 

_ Moran isn’t Sebastian Moran. It’s a cover. It’s Mary. Moran is Mary. Mary, Mary, Mary, have to get to John, have to warn him. _

 

Jerking forward, Sherlock hissed out in pain at the sudden movement. Yes, right, well, that was a nice rest. But, it was time to get back to work. This was the most important case of his life, and infinitely the most exciting. Probably painful for John, but that was secondary to this thrill.  _Right in his own social circle. Who could've imagined?_

 

There was a figure next to him. Sherlock looked up, beaming, before the smile quickly fell from his face. 

 

“Oh, what are  _ you  _ doing here?” 

 

Mycroft sighed and raised his eyebrows in annoyance. Still, Sherlock’s face had softened slightly and he could tell Mycroft was barely holding back his relief. Sherlock had felt Mycroft’s fingers on his own hand before he suddenly jerked them back. “How dare me, coming in to see my injured brother,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair. “How are you feeling?”

 

Sherlock’s response was to turn up the morphine. “Where’s John? We need to speak.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “About his wife.”

 

A look crossed Mycroft’s face. Apprehension. Sherlock had only seen that look a few times in his brother’s life. Once,  just before Mycroft had told him of Victor Trevor’s death. 

 

“Sherlock, ehm,” he sighed out, leaning forward on the bed and staring right at Sherlock. “We need to talk.”

 

\---

 

Although they wouldn’t swap their stories of waking up much later, John always supposed his would be a little more romantic than Sherlock’s. Sherlock may not have dreamed, but John was dreaming. Vividly.

 

-

 

“ _ Captain Watson is down! I repeat, Captain Watson has been shot!” _

 

_ “No, I’m ... “ Captain Watson was indeed down, blood flowing freely from the wound. He had hit something soft -- the man he’d been trying to save. Huh. This probably wasn’t the best place for him to lay, then. “I’m fine ... “  _

 

_ No, that wasn’t quite right. He felt. Warm. Always felt warm, places like here, but now he felt too warm. Someone tried to pick him up; John felt an arm around his middle. _

 

_ John Watson screamed. He was known for being the diligent doctor - only getting angry at the true fuck-ups, making frequent bawdy jokes on off-hours, probably a little bit friendlier than he should’ve been. Nobody had ever heard him scream like that, before. _

 

_ But the pain. It was too much. _

 

_ “You’re messing with a live round, Watson.” _

 

_ Was it Moran? Was it Morstan? Did it fucking matter? John was in so much pain he couldn’t hardly  _ see,  _ and everything was black. He’d been shot. Damn it -- damn it all to hell. _

 

_ Another explosion. _

 

-

 

He fancied he didn’t have the physical strength to bolt straight up from the bed like in the movies, but he did wake up with a start and a burning pain in the shoulder. There was a morphine pump next to him, but John didn’t fiddle with it. He hated not being lucid in hospitals.

 

John peeled open his eyes and stared at the ceiling, the memories from -- well, whenever it happened, coming back to him. Getting shot by his pregnant wife. Fuck.

 

Christ, he wanted to cry. John hadn’t cried since the damn wedding, and not in a sad manner since Sherlock’s funeral. But he wanted to cry in a different way, now -- like a kid having a tantrum. It just wasn’t  _ fair.  _ He had been  _ happy.  _ His life had been going  _ well.  _

 

Exhaling his feelings, John just leaned up and tried to take stock of the situation.

Before he could get too far, though, something else caught his attention.

 

Sherlock was sitting in a chair beside him.

 

Asleep.

 

_ What the fuck.  _

 

He was still in his hospital gown, still looking just as pale as the day John had left him. Except now, he appeared much more ...  _ alive.  _ One hand was curled up in his lap, the other dangling off the chair. His head was thrown back, curls just long enough to spill over the back of it. His mouth was parted lightly in listless thought. Or sleep.

 

How long had he been out?

 

Scratch that. Didn’t matter.

 

_ Sherlock had woken up.  _

 

Suddenly, it didn’t matter where the fuck he was. Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, was awake. And they’d be able to work this out, together. 

 

He reached for him, but as soon as he moved his arm, a massive bolt of pain hit him. It felt like he’d been struck by lightning and he swore  _ loudly.  _ Right, right, he'd been shot. Should probably have considered that.

 

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, seeing John. He smiled. “Good to see you, too.” His voice cracked a bit. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Like someone just shot me in the shoulder.” Pause. “You?”

 

“Like someone smashed my head into the floor. Well.” Sherlock shook his head, leaning up from his chair. “Like they did so two weeks ago.”

 

“It’s only been two weeks? I haven’t been down for some stupidly long period of time?” 

 

“Well, in a way, yes. Not as long as me, however. You lost a significant amount of blood, needed to recover. Besides.” His eyes were twinkling softly. “You have a much better sense of timing. I was always late.”

 

John figured he was babbling, making small talk to Sherlock out of shock. It was just so odd, seeing Sherlock up and talking. He’d gotten so used to talking  _ at  _ Sherlock, talking  _ with  _ him was strange. He knew he should've talked about more serious, sentimental things. Mary being the top of the list. Moriarty being a solid second. Maybe how glad John was to see him was third. Regardless, though, he just pushed all that to the side and focused on seeing his friend again.

 

“You’re staring.” Sherlock informed him gently.

 

“Fuck off, no I’m not,” John retorted. “And if I am -- sorry, I thought I was watching my best friend slowly die in a hospital bed.”

 

“What a foreign feeling; I can’t imagine what that must feel like.” Sherlock said it all in good humour, though. “Mary was a good shot. You won’t have an extra wound -- well, I don’t think so, anyway. Her bullet went through the same spot as the one that invalided you from the Army.”

 

“How thoughtful of her,” John grumbled.

 

“She knows you’re insecure about it. The wound.”

 

“I’m not -- for Christ’s sake. Probably’ll give me some more nerve damage.” John rotated his shoulder and another bolt of pain hit him. “Fuck.”

 

Already, it felt like things were returning to normal. Sherlock was staring at  _ him.  _ He could only manage what deductions were going through his head. Hell, John was only starting to recount the past few days, himself. Well, the past few days he'd been awake.

 

Shit. The torture. The two year absence. It hit him, suddenly, what Sherlock had gone through. It was hard to associate that with the man sitting in front of him, smiling the way he was. Like it was a different person, a twin. 

 

But -- it was. Sherlock had been through a lot. For him.

 

“Alright, get over here,” John grumbled at him, pushing himself up so that he was sitting with his back against the bed. Sherlock looked at him quizzically -- and a little warily.

 

“Why?”

 

“Just do it.”

 

Sherlock pushed himself up from the chair and John noted that he still looked sore. Breathing was off. He sat on the edge of John’s bed awkwardly, hands smoothing out the length of his hospital gown. 

 

Throwing one arm around him, John just tugged Sherlock close against his chest for a hug. Sherlock awkwardly had to lean forward and there was an uncomfortable tug at John’s injury, but he wasn’t going to let go just yet.

 

“I’m glad you’re alive. Prick,” he insisted at him. 

 

Sherlock froze a little but otherwise relaxed into the embrace. “You weren’t supposed to go get yourself  _ shot,  _ John. What the hell were you doing?” They were close, very close, and John just focused on Sherlock's shoulder for a little. Suddenly, they were two best friends hugging because they'd  both been so close to dying. So close to never seeing each other.

 

“Giving you a taste about how much I worry about you every damn day.”

 

“Point taken.”

 

The hug really was going on a little too long, and John knew they’d have to talk about everything that had happened. The plan for the future. Unless Mycroft had informed him, Sherlock was still in the dark about everything. Maybe. He held on for a few seconds longer until Sherlock started to squirm, and then moved back -- at just the right time, it seemed.

 

“Mr. Holmes!” The nurse admonished him, stepping into the room. He immediately went over to grasp Sherlock’s shoulder. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere, god, we were about to send out an alert. You’re supposed to be  _ resting.”  _

 

“I was resting. For quite a few hours, actually,” Sherlock complained, but regardless stood up from the bed. “I’m  _ fine.  _ I’ve told you.”

 

“Really? Well, the amount of morphine you’ve been -- “ 

 

John’s eyebrows raised a little as Sherlock suddenly coughed, going over to the door. “That’ll be -- I will talk to you later, John. There are some things we need to sort out.”

 

And suddenly, Sherlock was out the door.

 

\---

 

The next few days were remarkably gentle for John. In a way, they were healing.

 

When Sherlock had left, he didn’t cry. However, he did end up staring at the ceiling to evaluate what the hell had gone wrong with his life. What the hell had he done, in this life or a past one.

 

It wasn’t meeting Sherlock. Meeting Sherlock had been the  _ best  _ thing to happen to him, even if he wished the man wasn’t such a colossal arse at times. 

 

And he didn’t even regret meeting Mary. God knew how he was going to get through Sherlock’s absence without her.  She’d been lovely, and excellent, and funny. Just also happened to be an assassin who had ran off with his child.

 

And, yeah, he got sad. 

 

It was hard to be that way, though, around Sherlock. Sherlock snuck out of his room 7 times and would just rest around a few hours in John’s room. From there, they’d gotten everything out of the way. 

 

“It’s obvious,” Sherlock said one day, his feet propped up on John’s bed as the man looked at him. John’s shoulder had healed to the point where he could move around freely. Well, freely enough. Sherlock had jokingly hugged him again a day ago and his hand clapping against his bad shoulder was a feeling he would  _ not  _ forget. “What’s been going on. Just needed a final piece of the puzzle.”

 

“Oh, yeah?” John challenged him. “You think?”

 

“Even you could figure it out.”

 

“Let’s just blame the painkillers I’m on, alright, and have you explain it to me.”

 

“The code Moriarty went on about,” Sherlock elaborated, letting a pen role in between his fingers. “Of course it wasn’t a real one, no, it was him ordering people about until they did what he wanted. A sort of ... real-life computer code. We all run on them, John, we all have routine. His just included a wider network.”

 

John shook his head, and Sherlock went on.

 

“Who’s to say it can’t be continued after his death? Just a few texts that were planned in advance to the right people.”

 

“That can’t be right. How could he have known? Not even you could predict the future.”

 

Lazily, Sherlock waved his hand in the hair. “Back-up plans, men to take the fall. Someone high-up says that the plan’s failed, just redirects to another line of code.”

 

“You  _ really  _ like that metaphor, don’t you? Do you even know how to code?”

 

Again, Sherlock waved dismissively at him. He looked so comfortable in the hospital chair; it might well have been the sofa at 221. John felt a little more stiff. He was sitting as straight as he could, hands lying on top of the sheets in an attempt not to look injured. It was nearly military, the way he held himselff. Well, the last time he'd been a hospital for  _so_ long as a patient ...

 

“Mary’s just one of those, then. She must’ve received the next instruction and just ... went on her way.”

 

“Mm. Possibly. Her first plan was to keep me away from London for a sufficient amount off time - when she discovered I was getting close, she made the Serbian distraction. Or someone did.”

 

“Why marry me, then?” John’s voice came out sharp. They tried to skirt the subject, mostly, but it was an important point.

 

“Likely she would’ve known to stay close to you. If I were to tell anyone about my disappearance, most likely it would be you --” Sherlock winced at the sharp look from John. “And getting a job as a nurse wouldn’t be difficult.”

 

“Took Mary Morstan’s name for herself, took Sebastian Moran’s history for you to find. Fuck. Still, though, she wouldn’t have had to -- get with me. Surely that would’ve been more dangerous.”

 

Sherlock Holmes looked thoughtful, for a second, before sighing and taking a sip of water. Something told John that Sherlock wished it was a little stronger than water. John wouldn't mind some, himself.

 

“She loved you.” Pause. “If we removed all pretensions, John. All old connections, all social biases, all obligations, if everything were removed and it was just you and m --” A stutter. “Mary. Then I have no doubt you two would’ve stayed together. That being said, you’re an Army doctor helping an detective and she’s an assassin helping perhaps the greatest criminal who ever lived.” Another long, slow drink of water. “ _ Romeo and Juliet  _ hardly works in real life, John. Two people from two different worlds.”

 

“Course it does. They just off each other at the end.” His lip curled a little. Fuck, why the hell had he wanted to  _ cry  _ so much lately? “But. Yeah. That actually helps a little.”

 

Sherlock was suddenly standing. It was the first time he had opted to leave without being escorted out by a nurse or poor medicine student. “I’m afraid I’ve got an evaluation to go for. Something to do with lasting head trauma.” He looked quizzical. “Who are you, again?”

 

Grateful for the sudden lack of tension, John laughed. “Oh, right. Go off then, you nutter.”

 

“You mean to tell me that I’m  _ not  _ just visiting the elderly and injured?”

 

“I will throw this at you.  _ Out.”  _

 

John was laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say -- sorry for the delay, thanks for everything, see you next week!


	7. Rejuvenation

“Alright. Please raise your arm, Dr. Watson.” This nurse, a girl this time, was chipper and upbeat. Sherlock was lounging in the chair, dragged next to the window. He was reclined backward, hadn’t spoken to John in an hour. His head was thrown back. The doctors had finally agreed that Sherlock’s health had returned to the point where they didn’t have to keep dragging him back from John’s room. 

 

Slowly, John raised his arm. It wasn’t comfortable. He managed halfway before the pain on his face was evident, and the nurse raised her hand to his bicep.

 

“No, no. Don’t hurt yourself.”

 

“It’s fine, I can --” John shook his head, raising his arm again. This time, he let out a small exclamation of pain and all of his breath left in a huff.

 

“Don’t be an idiot, John,” Sherlock rumbled from the chair by the window, and John shot him a dirty look.

 

“The chart said there was previous trauma to the area?”

 

“Yeah. Got shot, ehm. Nearly a decade ago.”

 

The nurse gave him a shy smile. If he hadn’t been married ( sort of ) she was exactly the sort of woman he’d go after. But. Circumstances. “Exciting life, then?”

 

Sherlock smiled from his chair .

 

“Could say. Is ... it’s going to get better, then? The range of motion.”

 

“You’re lucky to be able to move your arm. But,” the nurse conceded, “It should get better.”

 

Good. John would need it. He lowered his arm and rested against the bed, frustrated with himself. The wound had been nasty -- Sherlock hadn’t seen it yet; John had gotten glances when they had changed the bandages. Swollen and angry-looking and nasty. If Sherlock had been right, saying John was insecure about his scar -- which he wasn’t right, he was an idiot, but still -- then it was even worse, now.

 

Sherlock still had some bandages around his head, although they were likely going to be removed soon. John  _ had  _ seen his head, though. He had a bit of a bald patch right behind his ear from where the stitches were. 

 

“You know,” Sherlock drawled, “It’s not the end of the world, making your neighbour watch your dog while you work. You’re lonely, you need company, your girlfriend’s left you for an American woman.”

 

“Maybe not when she’s got a needle in my arm, Sherlock,” John hissed at him, but it didn’t come out as harsh as he thought it would.  _ He missed this. I missed this.  _

 

The nurse - Anna? - looked surprised, but gave a shy smile. “No, it’s alright, Dr. Watson. He’s done all this already. Just showing off for you, I think.” Sherlock let out a scoff. “It’s just ... it’s just so  _ hard,  _ finding a woman when you’re a woman, you know? Hard to tell, sometimes. But I’m sure you know all about that, hm?” She gave a bright smile at Dr. Watson. “At least you two found each other.”

 

“What?” Great, they had found the  _ last  _ bloody person in London who didn’t know. “No, sorry, we’re not --  _ I’m  _ not --” 

 

“Oh?” Anna stuck out her lower lip a little and looked over at Sherlock. “But you said --”

 

That was enough for Sherlock to stand up and put a hand on Anna’s back. “While under the influence of  _ heavy  _ pain medication. Don’t you have another patient to check on?”

 

After a small look of confusion, Anna stood up, gathered her  things, and left the two alone. 

 

“So, what did you ... “ John questioned, and Sherlock held up a hand to him.

 

“Might I remind you of the time when you were ill and I accidentally overmedicated you? Don’t take the words of a sedated man to heart, John.”

 

\--

 

_ “This is the last time I take any medication from you,” John slurred, laying on the sofa. The man looked like death -- pale and sweaty and under absolutely no pretenses at all. He was wearing a soaked undershirt and a pair of striped pyjama bottoms. He’d been this way for a little longer than a week in utter agony. Frankly, that was probably why he agreed to Sherlock’s ‘experimental’ meds. _

 

_ “It’s working, isn’t it?” _

 

_ Sherlock’s voice was offended as he sat next to John, cataloguing his movements. John wasn’t lucid enough to notice, though. He was trying too hard not to simultaneously vomit and pass out. Still, though, he managed a dirty look at Sherlock. _

 

_ In doing so, though, he lost his balance and fell sideways, landing on Sherlock’s lap. He couldn’t find the strength to get up, so he just laid there half-paralyzed. Sherlock stiffened for a little before adjusting John so that he was a little more comfortable. _

 

_ “I’m dying, I must ... I must be dying.” _

 

_ “You’re not dying. Just maybe a bit too much of the sedative.” _

 

_ “Sedative? You ... you fucking ... argh,” John whined softly. One hand went up to gently touch Sherlock’s face, trying to pinch his chin. “Lucky you’re so ... fuggin’ brilliant, you are, absolutely ... just ... beautiful, brilliant ...”  _

 

_ “Mm?” _

 

_ “If this works, I’ll kiss you.” _

 

_ Needless to say, Sherlock did not get his kiss. _

 

_ \--  _

 

_ Will you take me home? - SH _

 

_ For the thousandth time. I don’t have a license. We’ll take a cab. -JW _

 

Theoretically speaking, John had already been released. He’d left the hospital (despite Sherlock’s angry looks) and had gone back ‘home’, to gather his things. Now, he was slowly arranging them around 221b. Sherlock had already agreed to let him stay for a bit.

 

Being in his old place had been ... rough. 

 

John preferred a bit of privacy when it came to his emotions, and he didn’t think he’d ever relate to anyone how he’d just  _ collapsed  _ inside the newly painted nursery. And sobbed, and cried, and saw his life in pieces.

 

But.

 

Now, though? He was better. Everything felt better in 221b, and John was trying to distract himself. Had to sell the baby things. At least they didn’t put any embarrassing decals on the wall - it was just a light purple. Pleasant enough.

 

_ On second thought, can’t you just take a cab yourself? -JW _

 

_ They’re going to push me out in a wheelchair, John. I need someone to stop them. -SH _

 

Chuckling, John stuck his mobile in his pocket and continued to unpack. They had to plan things. Mary was still out there, somewhere, and she knew a lot more than she had told John. John was in it for bettering humanity and all that nonsense -- he was pretty certain Sherlock was just in it to keep from being bored. That was OK. That was usual.

 

He had finished re-organising the kitchen and throwing out the rotted food. It had taken about two hours, all said and done, before he took out his mobile from his pocket again.

 

_ I don’t want to leave in a wheelchair. -SH _ _   
_ _ It’s embarrassing. -SH _ _   
_ _ People will see. -SH _ _   
_ _ Fine. I suppose I’ll live with it. You’ve always cared more about publicity anyway. -SH _ _   
_ _ You’re not upset, are you? -SH _ _   
_ __ Really, John, I haven’t done anything. -SH

_ You’re not usually one for the cold shoulder. -SH _ _   
_ _ Fine. Sorry. For ... whatever. -SH _ _   
_ _ John, I’m bored. -SH _ _   
_ _ Are you alright? -SH _ _   
_ _ John. Answer me. -SH _ _   
_ __ I’m contacting Mycroft. -SH

 

Last text sent five minutes ago. Damn.

 

_ I’m fine. I was cleaning. -JW _

 

The response was immediate. 

 

_ Oh. OK. Good. -SH _

_ It’s only been two hours. -JW _

_ Sorry - -SH _

 

And, for the moment, John left it there. They’d spent nearly every waking moment together since John had woken up, surely Sherlock would get bored easily. So, he just left it.

 

\--

 

John woke up with a start at two in the morning. It wasn’t unusual. Sherlock had been home for a week and they had settled in. More or less, anyway. They still didn’t talk about Mary too much. John had taken his ring off, the legal aspects were being handled by Mycroft, and Sherlock seemed like he was doing his best to pretend like nothing ever happened. 

 

They were doing some preliminary things to investigate. Mostly, trying to track down his damn wife. Aeroplane tickets, hotels, anything noticeable around the area. Sherlock had a near permanent track on Bart’s maternity ward.

 

Didn’t stop nightmares, though. He breathed, running his hand through his soaked hair. Something wasn’t right.

 

There was a figure on the side of his bed, looking down at him.

 

He reacted immediately.

 

Grabbing for the figure’s throat, he immediately threw him down on the bed. John straddled his waist, pushing down onto his throat. Hell, he was half-asleep - it was all instinct, at this point.

 

“John --”

 

Shit. Releasing the pressure, Sherlock started to cough violently, nearly retching over the side of the bed. John got off of him and let him cough it out. Sherlock was wearing his pyjamas and dressing gown, still coughing. Almost childishly, though, he gave John a shove that sent him backward on the bed.

 

“‘s that for?” John slurred out, sitting back up on his knees to look at Sherlock. 

 

“There was noise. In your room. I thought ... “ Sherlock was rubbing at his throat, trying to clear it. “There was someone in it.”

 

“You’ve heard me have nightmares before.” John was shy about them -- he hated that they were something he had to watch out for. That it made him a liability at night. “What the hell’s been up with you? It’s like you’ve got separation anxiety. Panicked whenever I so much as leave the room. I’m not fragile, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock let out a slight whine, picking himself up from his bed. “Noted. Go back to bed, Jo-”

 

“No. We’re talking about this, now.” Maybe John was feeling embarrassed about having nearly choked his best friend to death, but ... well, wasn’t the first time. “What the hell’s up with you? Complete honesty, we agreed.”

 

Letting out a pained sigh, Sherlock fell back on John’s bed and stared up at the ceiling. His eyes were shut. Figuring that it was going to be a long night, John leaned over and turned on his light.

 

Sherlock looked a mess. His gown hung loosely from him and his hair was a mess, sticking up in odd tufts from his head. Christ, the man looked exhausted.

 

“I didn’t know about Mary. I didn’t know that she was still being -- that she was still in the game. She slept next to you every night. She didn’t know the next stage of her plan, it could’ve come at any time -- if the next part of the plan was getting rid of you, or ...  “ Sherlock sighed. “Getting slow. I must be getting slow.” 

 

“You’re not getting slow,” John grumbled out. “You weren’t exactly looking to see if Mary was dangerous to me. And we sort of thought her finale was shooting you.” 

 

Looking at Sherlock, something seemed very ...  _ familiar.  _ John couldn’t put his finger on it for the longest time, just staring at Sherlock. Sherlock, who looked so sad and so worried and so  _ tired.  _

 

“You’re still in danger, John. You were shot, you could’ve  _ died  _ \--”

 

“You were  _ comatose.  _ Nobody’s  _ angry  _ at you.”

 

“That’s not the point. Losing you ---” Sherlock cut himself off for a second, before standing. “There’s been certain symptoms. Ever since I woke up. The shock -- it’s as if I’ve  _ slept  _ through everything. It’s chaotic. You could’ve died.”

 

_ Paranoia.  _ That was it. Sherlock was feeling  _ paranoid.  _ John knew that Sherlock had always been, to a degree. It never got terrible, not to the point where they had to bring in outside help -- but he could see it in Sherlock, now. The anxiety.  He was hunched over on the bed, clearly uncomfortable.

 

“I’m fine. Yeah? No need to worry yourself about it, I’m fine,” John soothed. He still had bandages on his shoulder so he reached up to pat Sherlock with his good hand. “We’ve just got to fix this. This whole big ... thing, that’s going on. You’ve done bigger things.”

 

Sherlock looked up in confusion.  _ Bigger things?  _

 

John’s eyes flicked down to Sherlock’s back, and that was all it took for Sherlock to know. His face went pale and they didn’t speak for a half-minute. Finally, he gestured to the other side of the bed.

 

“You need to sleep. You’ve got feelings of paranoia.”  _ Probably resulting from PTSD.  _ “And you’re only going to worry more if you don’t sleep. You’ve got my back,” John tossed an extra duvet over to him. “I’ve got yours.”

 

Mumbling softly under his breath, Sherlock awkwardly took the duvet and fled to the other side of the bed. His side of the bed.

 

\---

 

Months had passed. They stayed on the case. An entire wall of Sherlock’s room was dedicated to it. Pins and strings and ideas scribbled down and left forgotten. They had tracked Mary for a little while - right around her due date, Sherlock had disappeared for a week. John only found out much later that he had visited probably dozens of hospitals to see if she had dropped the child off. Not that he had much to go on.

 

John had gotten better. He had mourned, and Mycroft had gotten the divorce papers to go through. And having Sherlock around, there was always something to do.

 

Currently, that thing included keeping an eye on his gun on the table, as he’d woken up to Sherlock  _ shooting  _ things off the wall that night.

 

“It’s as if she’s disappeared. No sign, no -- no slip-up. She wasn’t a  _ genius,  _ John, she wasn’t anywhere near as clever as Moriarty.”

 

“Well, you never found Moriarty, either. Just sort of waited until he came to you, most of the time.”

 

Sherlock let out an offended snort before they both sat up straight, hearing footsteps thud on the stairway. Lestrade. Heavy footfalls, familiar enough to skip the 2nd loose stair.

 

“Sherlock. John,” he greeted formally, dipping his head a little before turning over to Sherlock. “You haven’t been ‘round, so I figured I’d come to you.”

 

“No. I’m on only one case.” Sherlock put his back to him, turning towards the wall once more.

 

Lestrade gave John a sympathetic glance. Both for that  _ one case  _ being about his wife, and also for putting up with this massive dickhead.

 

“Sherlock, we’ve not been getting anywhere. Take one, clear your head, come back to it later.”

 

His response was immediate and  _ hostile.  _ “ _ No,  _ John.” He could nearly hear the snarl in his voice.

 

“London’s gone  _ mad,  _ Sherlock, I don’t know what it is. Homicides have gone up, been talking to my friends in other divisions -- must be a new criminal class or something, because it’s been awful. Surely you’ve seen the news.”

 

Sherlock had gone fully unresponsive, staring at the wall again. Lestrade grumbled.

 

“More responsive when you were comatose. Fine. I’m asking you to look into  _ one  _ case for me -- looks like it was an assassination. Broad bloody daylight, middle of Piccadilly Circus. Crime scene was too trampled over to make a difference, but we’ve still got the body.”

 

No response from the stony-faced man. Lestrade huffed a bit, gave John a sympathetic glance, and left.

 

“You know you don’t have to be that much of a cock to him. It’s a favour he does, coming down here and pulling you out of your moods.”

 

“He’s a dull detective who just wants to raise his clearance rate.”

 

Right, Sherlock had gone into  _ that  _ mood again. ‘’I’ll insult my friends to make me  believe I’m a sociopath’ mood. Sighing, John just went over to him and put a hand on his side. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

 

Physical touch had been a strange topic lately. John had went from being married to living with his flatmate, and the loss had been staggering. Sherlock had never been one for it. But lately, it’d just been small. Leaning against one another on the sofa. Brushing a leg under the table as they ate dinner. Sherlock and John had accidentally worked out a wordless system wherein Sherlock would request for John to play with his hair. It was the oddest thing.

 

“This is going to be here. Alright? This is always going to be here, for you, but trying to analyze what isn’t there isn’t going to help. You need something to clear your mind and public murder always gets you excited.”

 

Sherlock seemed to honestly and truly hesitate, leaning against John a little as he did so. “She could get away.”

 

“From where? For all we know, she’s halfway across the Earth by now. Give it time. She’ll slip up. It’s not like you to get yourself all hung up about this.”

 

“You know why.”

 

“And I’m grateful. Really.” 

 

They were standing close. John looked up at him questioningly, Sherlock returned the look. And for a second -- John didn’t know. He got the urge to do  _ something,  _ but that part of his life and Sherlock had never seemed to mesh together, and why would it now, and why the  _ hell  _ was Sherlock leaning down to meet him, too.

 

And John moved at the last second.

 

Feelings? For Sherlock Holmes? It isn’t as if he didn’t think about it before. People telling him about it every day, that surely he must have feelings for him, had given him pause for thought. John’s faith in romance wasn’t exactly at an all time high, so he had resolved himself to one, simple phrase and not to think on it more.

 

_ If I can have Sherlock as a friend, that’s all I need.  _

 

Now, though -- what the  _ hell  _ had Sherlock been thinking?

 

(In fairness, not much was going on in Sherlock’s mind at the moment besides a series of never-ending exclamation points.)

 

In his movement, Sherlock’s lips had landed to be awkwardly around his eyebrow. They stood like that for a few moments, the picture of awkwardness and confusion. John was leaning a little against Sherlock’s chest in a desperate moment of  _ I don’t want to be here I want this to end oh god say something before this gets even worse.  _

 

“Morgue,” Sherlock finally choked out, stepping away quickly. “Let’s go to the morgue. Examine the body. I’ll take the case.”

 

“Yes, right, right, sounds good,” John went to go get his coat and wallet.

 

All in all, the first kiss could have gone worse.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks for the comments, everyone! I feel like there'll be nine chapters all in all, but I'm going to leave it vague just in case I have to bump it up to ten. Just to put that out there!


	8. Months Later

The body had led to nothing. And then the bodies had started to pile up. Not literally speaking, of course, not all at once -- that would make a terrible mess. But it had been case after case for the past two months. John counted thirteen, but Sherlock insisted fourteen.

 

John fancied that he usually felt stupid while on cases. Sherlock never made that any easier, after all. But now -- he felt extraordinarily dumbstruck as he stared at the bodies, looked over the details. 

 

Sherlock wasn’t any better. Surprisingly.

 

Once, in all of John knowing him, Sherlock had failed two cases in a row. It had been before the fall. In retaliation, Sherlock had hidden most of John’s mugs throughout the flat in random cases. John couldn’t remember what he’d say to set Sherlock off -- probably something like ‘it’s only normal to fail every now and then.’ After blowing up at him, though, John had thrown his hands up in the air and left. When he returned, the mugs had been put back.

 

This wasn’t like that.

 

Fourteen - or thirteen - failed cases in a row. He and Sherlock were constantly snapping at one another -- this had all happened within a month. The kiss hadn’t been brought up. There’d been no time within all the hustle and bustle of the cases. And, of course, the frustration.

 

They were all just so clean. Sometimes they were brazenly obvious, but witnesses disappeared or evidence got removed or, on three memorable occasions, the bodies were taken away before anyone got there.

 

The Mary case hadn’t even been touched. How could they? John knew how tantalizing these cases were for Sherlock, and a small ‘break’ had turned into a month long frustrating expedition. 

 

“I’m telling you, Sherlock, I haven’t missed anything with the body. The fingernails have been scrubbed clean, even.”

 

“Well, clearly you must have been missing something, because that means we don’t have anything. Are you sure you studied medicine, doctor?” Sherlock’s tone was acidic, as it had been for most of the day.

 

John was tired. He was tired of these constant cases, of the constant worrying over Mary, and he was tired of this  _ fucking arsehole.  _ Whatever bonding they had in the hospital was bloody well forgotten, now.

 

“Speaking as someone who  _ passed University,  _ yes, Sherlock, I damn well think I haven’t missed anything.” It was most certainly a low blow, but John was ready to hit it as they pulled up to the flat. He was tired. He wanted a drink. His shoulder hurt.

 

Sherlock scowled at him and exited the cab without paying.

 

John let out a grunt of annoyance as he made his way up the stairs, only to be confronted by Sherlock’s tall figure at the top. “Oi. I can’t pass through you, you know.”

 

From his position, though, he could just about see around Sherlock into their flat.

 

And the body on the floor.

 

“Jesus Christ,” John grumbled, putting his hand on his face. For a long while, Sherlock had suspected that the cases had been following them -- and now, it seemed that theory had more merit.  “Move out of the way, Sherlock, let me go check.”

 

There was a piss-poor chance of them being alive. John felt no pulse when he kneeled down, and instead went to checking. No obvious sign of death, probably overdose of some sort -- a lot had been overdoses. He checked her pockets for a wallet, a mobile, anything, but found them completely empty. 

 

It had become almost routine, this. John looked over the scene with tired eyes before going to check her hands. Sometimes things were hidden in them, which would get Sherlock excited - and then something entirely unrelated would be there the next case, or nothing at all. It was infuriating.

 

A note. 

 

_ Dear the happy couple, _

_ I hope this encourages you to stop following me. You’ve seen what I can do and it won’t bother you and your domesticity, I promise. But bear in mind, loves -- next time it won’t be a stranger. _

 

  * __M__



 

John turned the note over in his hand and then straightened it out a little more. Sherlock was always brilliant with stationary. Size, kind, female writing, male. He raised it up towards Sherlock and opened his mouth to ask if Sherlock would check it.

 

Sherlock had tears in his eyes.

 

\--

 

The police had been in and out for a few hours. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, as he had been for most of the visit. Lestrade had talked to him a little and John didn’t hear his answers well, but they sounded monosyllabic. His head rested in his hands most of the time and he looked miserable.

 

“No, I don’t know her,” John mentioned to the detective, some woman half his age. “Didn’t, I suppose. Didn’t. We just got back and she was here.  Yeah, it’s fine, I understand you might be back in a bit. You’re welcome to search anywhere, if you’ve got to.”

 

When they finally departed, the flat was in a minor disarray. Rugs were kicked up and there was a noticeable scent of latex in the air. Sherlock didn’t move from the sofa, and that was about when John started to get worried.   
  


“Well, now that that’s done, I’m properly starving. You want me to make you something?”

 

Nothing.

 

“Er. You OK?”

 

Nothing.

 

It was about then that John realised how lost he was on this man. Not even in a romantic sense. He and Sherlock had been at each other’s throats for a month, consistently angry with one another. And now, at this slightest hint that Sherlock was distressed, John was ready to do anything he could.

 

Surprisingly gentle, he got on his knees in front of Sherlock. He winced a little at the pressure on his bad leg, and Sherlock let out a mumbled, ‘your shoulder’.

 

“Sod it. Are you OK? Did this get to you?”

 

Sherlock kept his face in his hands, but John heard his ragged breath on the inhale.

 

“Sherlock, you’re not -- you’ve seen a lot worse than this, I know you have. You’re not soft. Why is this getting to you?”

 

Sherlock seemed to hesitate for a while, before slowly removing his hands. He bowed his head, however, looking at his knees. John’s palm was resting flat on one. 

 

“Don’t be an idiot, John. You know it’s Mary. Showing off what she can do. And -- when it was just the cases - it didn’t bloody matter, she was just entertaining us and entertaining herself. But now it’s a threat. I can’t even stop her from coming in here, I wouldn’t be able to stop her from -- “

 

“Christ’s sake.” John grunted. “If the next words out of your mouth are ‘protecting me’, Sherlock, I swear to god. You don’t need to do that. You’re not going to do that. I am  _ combat-trained,  _ I can do it  _ myself.  _ “

 

Sherlock just looked up at him with such sad eyes that, surprisingly, John felt guilty.

 

“Look. We don’t know what she’s going to do. It’s just a game, at this point. Cat-and-mouse. She wouldn’t off me.”  _ I don’t think.  _ “Or you. We’ve just got to keep working at that, alright? I know it’s been ... mad, absolutely insane couple of months, but we’re going to be fine. Don’t be nervous.”

 

Sherlock’s next breath broke out in a sad, mildly condescending smile. “How on Earth are you so positive about this?”

 

John gave him a stern look. “Because I’ve got you. Alright? I had to live without you for a very long time and I imagine it felt the same. That you’ve got no control over anything, that you’ll just be pushed along until something’s lucky enough to off you.  But that’s not the point, right now. You’ve got me. I’ve got you. We always manage to work it out.”

 

Sherlock didn’t seem to be especially swayed by those words, but he raised his head to look at John.

 

“What do we do, then? What if she goes after you?”

 

“What if she goes after you?” John lectured back. “We don’t stop worrying about ‘what ifs’. Come on, what happened to the arrogant bastard who treated his life and mine like it was worth shite? You were so reckless. Use that, a bit. I’ll be fine.”

 

“That was about a gunshot wound and a head injury ago, John,” Sherlock mumbled, although he gave him a small smile. “I just ... I need to keep you safe. It’s what you deserve.”

 

“Sod what I deserve. I want you to be happy.” Sighing, John shook his head. “I don’t want you to be thinking in terms of vows or promises or what you owe me, or anything like that. That’s -- it worries me. It’s just about you and me. Together. Working together, for the rest of our lives. However short that is.”

 

“So what do we do?”

 

“You’ve told me four times today that I’m an idiot. You can figure it out.” 

 

That made Sherlock beam at him, and John patted his knee. 

 

The kiss was suddenly forefront of his mind and his face flushed. Jesus. What the hell was that? What had that been?

 

Did Sherlock have feelings? For him? He tried to remember everything - the hospital, the confrontation with Mary, seeing him again. How it made him felt. Incredibly happy, mostly, equal parts ecstatic and relieved.

 

But was that interest?

 

“I, erm, fucked up the last one, so,” Sherlock murmured, tilting his head to the side.

 

How did the man always manage to read his mind?

 

John hesitated for a second before leaning forward to kiss him. He tasted of nicotine and body odor and, generally speaking, it wasn’t exactly a  _ pleasant  _ kiss. They were at too awkward of an angle for that. Still, though, Sherlock was nearly holding onto him, so tightly that eventually John let out a noise of pain and moved away.

 

“Sorry. I. Er, sorry,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes watering up slightly again. “Shite. Sorry.”

 

The man was touch-starved, wasn’t he? Just like John. They made a fair pair. When Sherlock saw John smiling at him, he moved forward to put his arms around his neck and leaned against him hard. There was only so much a man could put up with before he had to admit he needed some affection. And, frankly, love.

 

“It’s alright,” John reassured him, running one hand through his curls. “You’re completely fine, Sherlock.”

 

They would do this together.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, all, I hope you like this! I do have a partiality towards John taking up the detective mantle every now and then, so I think this is my fic that reflects that. It's also a bit of a slow build fic, unfortunately, but I hope you stick around with me! PLEASE leave a comment below for praise, criticism, anything you'd like. I have the majority of the fic written and I should be updating pretty frequently, but I'd love to see what people think of this. Especially as I've been out of the fanfic world for a while. Thanks!


End file.
